Dusty Lane to Nirvana

i never know
where a poem about my
soulmate is going.
it's like a car
driven by claude rains,
an unreleased movie,
a ticking bomb
with eight-point-three
seconds left before detonation.

i never know
what love might whisper
in my ear
because its sibilants are
syllable over syllable-
a speaking in tongues-
words aching to be born.
every line is a dead
reckoning, a strategy
for getting so lost in her
that no gps could ever locate me-
each stanza is a dusty
lane to nirvana.