they tint my vision
on the road, polarized like the way a concussion
drains color from restaurant candles, like
his skin turning pale in the winter:
clouds and mounds pinched expectantly
over the passenger’s seat
toward the sky’s melting gem,
persistence and memory hinting
i’ve translated before
head tilt, my weird vertical feeling -
crushed pensively in the space between his eyes
and the horizon -
is that he can’t actually see a beginning,
that he wants endings spelled in moments -
first anniversary, day that we die
he knows why i flinch at those mile-marked words
scraping color from the ceiling
mixing puzzles in the dirt
windshield seared open,
i’m sprinting toward everywhere or Barstow
and i want my actions to be loud cuz
there’s no phrase i can use to say what happens next
when the power lines spin,
when gravity reverses and
i faithfully let go of the grass