“Arizona”

You left your daughter’s socks at my house,
tiny and white on my bedroom floor.
I laundered them, and they rest on my dresser.

The socks are out of place,
    too small for anyone living here,
       but I cannot discard them.

                                        Sometimes I sleep
                             and find myself in your car.  
                    Here is where clouds are sugar-spun,
                    blowing across the dash.  

Rainfall breaks it, the miles stack themselves
atop each other, bales of hay until the border,
and I am awake all night.