The Map Is Not The Terroir

road trips come with unfoiled boredom
and vestigial linguistics that unload leviathans
of lingering peeves on approach to a distant burgh 
in another place to sublimate your roving disquiet
concerning the atrophy 
of your Other’s Love.

you spy with your little eye
the long terrain of you, back home 
where the strange wandered in
strangling the vines of communication
while hoisting semaphore grievances 
in the dead calm 
of too familiar
to give a 
damn 
now.

our windows down, 
like our defenses 
dream of.
we smell 
Flagstaff,
Arizona

and reflect.