Come join me. 
We'll put the top down and
drive
down Mourning Blvd towards

Oblivion.

You can undo your hair and
let the wind comb and uncomb it
from the top, down

(t a n g l e . . .
      u n t a n g l e.
   r a v e l . . .
          u n r a v e l.)

until it pulls so hard the roots
hurt
and you can let your cares
 s
          l
                     i
                                 p
through the loose roots until they escape
out of your head
and we'll leave them in our wake.

We'll pass your work.
         (you can leave one there)
We'll pass the bank.
              (leave another there)
We'll pass the cemetery.

Keep that one.

Put it in your pocket for later
and we'll drive through the foothills
to the top of that hill behind the
hospital
and we'll watch the
freeway shoot out of the top of the
hospital
spilling its carnage of
lights and traffic and worries and death
for miles southward.
And we'll look at things from the

top down

to make them seem smaller.
And we won't say a word --
we'll just let Thom Yorke tell us How To Disappear Completely.

                We're not here.
                This isn't happening.

Then I'll lend you my shoulder
and my heart
and we'll be
just us.