Blueshift

The specific blue, starless, almost black, on the verge of sunset.
We had proceeded until here.
The petrol tank of Impala almost empty.
The scent of clean laundry in a cardboard box in the trunk.

Running away had been easy itself, laboriously easy.
The clean laundry smelt like the front of the thrashing house,
when we were young.
Running away from an open asylum is easy.
Understanding a human being is said to be easy.
No one can understand love,
or how extreme actions will stand for love.

We have clean clothes.
We remember the sound of the threshing machine, we remember the colour,
black as the Bible cover, although the machine was yellow,
we remember father urging and fussing,
the dirty men behind the feeding table.
We remember the smell of the straw.

This is what we have: Chevy Impala,
clean clothes, and each other.
We have the highway,
We’ll be driving, when we get some more petrol.
Into the blue.