a barren wasteland
ringed by mountains
everything has a needle—
nature’s shooting gallery—
and I’m afraid
of a rocky trail, the desolate road, that lone hiker, myself
once driving in the rain
and fog on the precipitous highway
sea crashing on my right
you, driving, asked me
why–since I claimed to not fear death—
I was so worried
of a car wreck off the cliff
there are a lot of answers
I could give, ways
to explain
but really it was just
the loneliness