Poem with Molasses

Where there is a road sign, I ignore it.
Eighty MPH in the countryside – running
dark and in radio silence just for the hum
and rush of fresh chip and seal pavement
and the static of loose gravel slipping up,
smacking the underside of this old and
beaten minivan – is a good thing on
an evening thick as molasses. Where
was it, dear, where we lay in the grass,
relearning the constellations and unlearning
the freedom of nakedness, together?
In that field, where we were naked,
I will leave this car for good, maybe set
it to burning, and be free of that evening.