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Milorad Pejić
THE RIDE
We’re traveling together, without shadows,
like lanterns. The silence of snails in the dank
woods is crunching under the wheels; somewhere
in a moonlight’s beam the crescent of a weasel
is flashing; you stare at the road all night.
I can’t see the precipices myself, those gaping
coldly next to us: I keep an eye on your hands
all night watching the reins lest they slacken.
If you fall asleep, I’m no longer on my way.
An ill-timed death is lurking for me curled up
in your darkness.