Pass through town―
where traffic lights change
to single-lane outside the muddy bay.
Drive gently beside me,
sand in your hair, like in your dream―
hoisting from water to headland
can be messy.
Pull forward to a passing spot,
beyond the guardrail.
Raise a one-finger salute―
then press, to lip-read my intentions.
Disregard the carefully folded map.
Pray to your own hand―
my America ― my new-found land.
You know the way.