You’ve always been attracted to caution,
airy yellow lines of a road.
Nobody trusts
a stranger until they’re
a stranger themselves.

Driving alone
you imagine crossing the line:
lustful connection
of metal bending
bodies demented
togetherly in a
savage harmony.

You saw a crash once.
Hers. People screamed
noise needs air but her–
she was beautiful then.
You saw fireworks, unbinding
reds and oranges touching
the sky — you wanted within, that
trace of sky with skin.

Since you shared that moment
you began to watch crash tests.
The airbag shoots out, finally
a pillow to dream on always.
A flailing arm wanting
to hold heaven’s hand.
The dummy’s head slow
motion snaps
speaking something very human
to you.

The ambulance split
cars like crimson sea, how
you only wanted her to wash
over you. The caution tape
held your hand, but
you need to hold her.
You see her everyday
in stop signs, at red lights
in slow motion. Now,
all roads lead you to
that contact you crave,
the reunion.

When I passed you on the street
the other day, chin tucked in,
without saying so much as anything.
I did so because I am a liar, and
I did not want to lie to you.

I didn’t know what to say
as rain and humility mocked
my holistic intentions. Your blouse
sobered me almost deft and

I am idle willingness. Had
I said “good evening,” I would’ve
thought of that fragile morning
when I left—shirt and shoes in hand—

of the snickering sun.
The lamppost buzzing
with daft purpose, shone a dull
accusing spotlight that revealed each

or neither of us, but not both.
We were angles a part
of an awkward geometry.
Never more symmetry than six degrees

but so much more. A sick child
will stare at dessert, looking for seconds,
countless seconds. Separate from radiance,
can you see how far it is to be close?

When I passed you on the street
it was that evening all night long.
You were a stranger then and
things are stranger than they were
before I passed you on the street.