Rubbernecking

Your heather-head       a fern;      dog-tonguing wind.          The Scotch broom   tapestry  of the unworked
hyperbola                      of remembering                       our drive                      at forty frames per second.

This         is a laughing mirror     I speak to you through now.     If I time it correctly I can make every light
or  walk   right through this wall          holding a flashlight up                                         saying This is love.

This is how every ghost story begins.         After dusk I wrap my lips around it             until my face glows
and   I   forget                               I   don’t   believe                                                   what   I    just   said.

I want to be trapped     in a car with you        as frothing dogs circle.    This is the best way         to watch
the sunset,             ignorant and soaked     from the grey rain    that comes          in the last minute of day
being day         when we show each other              parts of us                that only exist               tomorrow.

In addition to you      I know the mustard     brown of fear     and quieter versions of the forest, intimately.
The                                         ones                                          without                                          trees.

The ring  around  the mountain’s head   is called  laurels,    where I learn    to roll over    and beg
to rob      the truck      and spend  it all    in one night.

Air cracks        a space between   fears    like  lake  house  drywall,       just enough to let in the cold