ready to crack and splinter, or
brittle sandpaper that’s been wetted
and dried, wetted and dried, or
a throat that’s parched and gagging,
I imagine it all like baking topsoil.
I want to get into my car and
drive, drive, drive:
There’s something to be said for being honest
with someone else. But doesn’t it say more
when I’m honest with me?
If my car bent itself into or around or
through or behind, into shards of
cartilage and marrow, burgundy and
full of rot,
it would not be so bad, I suppose.
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