That highway made an entry inside his skull,
the journey progressed through canyons, all the time you spoke
until we reached the cities' back yard.
Blood had dwindled from the air, I was made of stone,
oil-stains remained on my face.
Antennae glittered, the satellites were in their orbits
messages whined along lines, from such small pieces
the sea of messages between us was constituted.
There were hollows behind the screen of earth and sky
there were vaults of omens
behind the sea of antennae, and fields of supernatural peace
(although one must not say so, the time was merely auspicious
for moulting and the return of colour: do not wear black any longer).
You say you will keep this negative and I shall keep your words
I shall eat them and digest them until the next flood,
like the coin, the eagle and the sun,
in the grave's back yard, and I shall let the highway hum.