give me a long road

between myself and the end of a line

an extended, purposeful solitude

with bone-music, smoke and perpetually open windows

at the other end of which there would still be the music and smoke of me

but also books

and a private hotel balcony

the points being grief at the leaving

and release at the arrival

but also the traffic and lights and muscle of the stretch in between

as if healing could be mapped out in the small hours, the miles and the signposts of another’s design