Writhing beneath junk.

The desert met us at nightfall in New Mexico, but we had stopped in the Texas Panhandle to look at the stars. They were bright and close to the desert, dusty and forever, and bulging from their firmaments—swirls of galaxy and all things mysterious, the beauty of our pilgrimage wept in blinks of white and silver, and flashes of modest reds from the convex sky. And there at the turnout we undressed and fucked on the hood of the car, our bodies a speck of tongue writhing beneath giants and fleeting space junk.