Suburban Gloaming

Your ash-brown soles on the dashboard,
seat reclined to the napping point
as we coasted through nowhere and stopped
to eat out of a basket in the cul-de-sac
where I first felt the pull of the moon.
There is no scorched earth, only scorching
pavement, yet lions squeeze through the cracks
and ants pool around any dropped morsel.
When I said this you threw the salt shaker
out the window. It shattered into a glinting
constellation and as each piece was carried off
underground we drove away.