finding watered down versions of you in the past sitting in my lap

my memory of you is on a maroon road,
somewhere, but at night
when I'm up and not up, somewhere
there is driving, and light
has a warm notch in a half lidded eye
and someone is awake and driving,
finding ways past trees no one will ever
want to get to know, the chosen ones
impregnating the spreading dress of our yards,
they we love like long wombed roads.

there you are in a maroon cup, everywhere
full of milk, cold air on my tonsils,
thirst, seeing your winding limbs in a circle,
in a white dust, blue mustache,
the bated breath of our newborn, seeing wintergreen,
sweet roads, us on a road long enough
to eat a row of clementine wedges before it's narrow
tail withers, narrow like a lacefly
in a buttonhole in the sticky eyes of a watchman,
wondering how wide space isn't only
horizontal, sitting atop a maroon lid for a road,
thinking about Montana, like me,
where afternoon's wafer and lamb lay in the divinity
of transmogrifying clouds.