The old blue truck that rolled into the cactus wash
has been up-righted by teenagers—
rotten canvas draped inside the bed so they can be
on their backs and watch the asters float by to Cape Hatteras.

She says this way there are
no snakes.

She says in the bag there’s egg salad on fresh biscuits
and lemonade with ice in it that is also lemonade
but a darker shade . . .

He says the painter will cut off an ear
for some woman. He wasn’t humbled
by the night sky. It just made
him crazier. I’m with that guy . . .
She punches him in the arm and shoulder.
He feels glorified and smoldering. She whispers all these rocks

burning up in the sky can’t be a good thing.

They will both giggle
with the grunting opioid hens
and then with the sun she will wake. Not him.