Late Summer, Highway 9

The radio was singing something old,

about a place we'd never been.

You said the road was kinder

when we couldn't see the end.

And the moon, that careful witness,

held its breath and bowed its head —

and the dust rose up behind us

like a hymn we never said.

There's a diner past the county line

where the coffee tastes of rain,

and the waitress doesn't ask you

if you're going home again.

And the moon, that careful witness,

held its breath and bowed its head —

and the dust rose up behind us

like a hymn we never said.

So we drove until the skyline

lost the language of its name,

and the stars came out like mercy

and they burned and burned the same.