road lines

_

I would drive, you
sleeping in the wheel-

well, reclined so far 
that your seatbelt

looked like trig
against your chest,

and think of the ease
with which you found

such acute blindness
With which you’d lie still

for hours on end, my car
made a reliquary

Or intersect, right except 
you, who would stir, 

and every time I tore 
my eyes from the road—

line by line—you always
a holy thing misspelled