Even in the truck, dreams of spewed legs, explosions of blood, being hunted through a labyrinth of silence, track me down. Night, I stare down the shallow path of headlights. I change the six CDs. Finally I try to read sitting on the bunk with the single spot light but the book vibrates. Every night I give up.

I'll drive a couple hours you say.

It's the truck that gives me this one dream, just the one time. Fish. I don't remember the sense of being a fish but what I keep a sense of, even after this much time, is bending my spine, a flinch really. And there I am shooting through the gentle press of water. And there I am bending betwixt and between and the clear skin holds me.

And sometime during the truck years, the personal warfare dreams, show up less often.

After a couple more years, it never takes longer than an hour for you to pull over. Now though, you search for somewhere I can get out in the morning. An independent truck stop on a two lane, even an extra big rest area. You come to bed like its the first time. You say you like to wrap around as you slam up against me. I find my mouth, my knees sealed to the back wall. Breathing is restricted.

But in the morning, for a little while, I will have the whole country.