They drive west.
Roads rhythmically serpentine.
Roads laser-straight boredom.
West at dawn, light dazzling in their rear view mirror.
West at noon, mirage like dancing snakes.
West in the evening, the atomic glow of the sun buried in the horizon.
They drive all night.
West beneath the Great Bear and the Belt, its sword slicing icy cirrus.
West across sultry wetlands, fetid swamps, and sauna deserts releasing their heat.
West between the Moon and silvered fir, creaking oak, shadowed mesquite.
They drive west until they reach the sea.
They gaze at the water and yearn for its embrace.
Before they swim they sing.
They sing of laughter and horror and triumph and misery and rebellion and exhaustion and hatred and forgiveness.
They sing between the notes, above board, below the knees but never on the nose.
They sing until their throats scratch as wire and thorns and shattered glass swirls in their song.
They sing and then they swim.
They swim until they drown in the deep green water.
They drown in the turquoise pool.
They drown in red tides and high tides and ebb tides and tide pools no deeper than a baby’s breath.
And then they rest.
In the west.