No, the moon does not keep me awake

at night, the torchlight, cracking your window

it may well be, can't say I'm otherwise aimless or free,

but such consolation are my lights on the road

that slopes away from us in gradual declines.

Give me your secrets tonight, pass me fire,

light to see your tumbling words by,

before the inner furnishings of your Fiesta

swallow and keep and discard.

I am an open door and you are the prisoner

waiting for escape when the chance comes,

kicking the alarm and rousing the rabble,

screaming the dictates with glass and method.

Slow down, my turning lies ahead less than half

a mile and the night is wearing a liar's watch.

For now let's torch the ground and let your

business concerns lie as dust in the glovebox.

Let me out at the next crossing.