After the last war we drafted pages and pages
of our final will and testimony. Then we set off
in a different direction. What we left behind
didn’t amount to much. I was all for living
the fictitious life. We chipped in to drive
until we ran out of gas. We wound up in one lost valley.
Cold cash passed through us like lightning through trees.
We nearly died laughing. We weren’t drunk.
Winter was mild, the spring came in torrents.
Under the duck cloth with handkerchiefs on our heads—
due to a hat shortage—there was talk of building
a spur back to the main highway. Our jokes
wore thin, our jeans. We printed a paper 
by night, the single issue being peace.
Water oaks in the carlights looked like I don’t know what.
We slept fine. The cooking wasn’t bad.
The part I remember fondly—him.
sitting up in the seminaked sunshine,
				     his hair blowing all around.