SPEEDING THROUGH EAST TEXAS

Day three on the road, the sky
opts to explode, rain spattering
the windshield, the highway
beginning to drown. In this state,
even the rain is unfamiliar,
the sight of green, roadside
plants, plains, no hint of smoke
swelling in the distance.
If California is a hike up
the Headlands—or maybe a car 
caught on fire—then this place 
is a dress left to mildew, 
scent of exhaust. I like the green, 
grass watered with thunderstorms,
so maybe I won’t miss living
three miles from the sea,
from everything I know. Maybe 
I can survive this place
unknown, this rain washing
away my ruin, softening 
my tensed muscles, 
my scaffolds of bone.