we drive into the night,
the beauty of a curvacious road
lost among nauseating bumps,
our passionate words
filling the air of the car
(even he shouts out
his usually-quiet opinion)

you might never see this side of him

or the one that opened up lips
along the lines of lakes
our passion moving from anger to lust
our hands discovering a new side
of the world’s version of wealth

i think about the 8500-mile drive,
the quiet moments on the sea
where bland as eucharist crackers,
his words slowly, almost silently, slipped out

you might make a judgment,
but you will never see the side of him
that mitigates me