On love, in Mississippi
I’m always in love
driving to Mississippi
the sun like a blanket
or your hand
I love the alternatives
the sun and your hand juxtaposed
making me choose
the Tennessee river stretched out below me
a mirror while I thought of you
and it sparkled too
Because it’s a silly feeling –
but who cares?
I don’t care.
I’m never as bright and warm,
never as happy with my imperfections,
as I am in love, in Mississippi,
where all the roads are bumply little one lanes,
where around the corner could be poverty or perfection.
You never know.
I just keep driving
there and back again
thinking both are a good idea in their own right
thinking about love
and the strange vertigo of descent into both.
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