Corn-covered plains spread low
below, yellow.
Fifteen miles of hard rain, then
radio sounds.
I trusted your fingertips
drawing lines over paper-hallowed
roads, that showed bends
but not turns.
or waves.
or sirens.
I found silver lining for the first time
where you grasped the horizon
and pulled it toward you—
a suitcase handle.
Black and new.
Where you’ve decided
to end up
ends up as laser ink
black on white
on a printout ticket:
IND →
