The man lies under a dead Ford

in the Colorado flats. His eyes are

caked in dirt. He smokes from

a cigarette pack rolled in his sleeves.

Emptiness scared us out onto Route 61.

The cold took us into these towns

where we hovered for warmth over tiny heaters.

He saw something come out of the corn fields,

a hundred years old. He could not name it.

He grew thin until he could no longer loosen bolts.

The illness filled him until all he could do was stare at the night.

He would be long dead come autumn.

Deep in his body grew something so

dark and unnamable that even

the darkest night could not kill it.

The highway laid out like a woman before us.