I wish I could write you a road trip, a big orange bus on a pilgrimage to Salt Lake City sitting cross-legged on top of the book of Mormon, wishing I could sing like that.
write about how I don't understand my companion's preoccupation
with authentic roadside diners. It's suspect in a banal way …what
it would mean for us to find one, I'm not sure
cheeks flushed from our encounter with the
'real', the girl from Brigham Young would
expect me to make love to her, her hand stroking my cheek the
first of her fingers entering .