You are a car, you are
a hospital,
warm lights
at the edge
of a deathless
highway.
You are a truck
stop, a star.
You are water,
an engine
pulled out
from a car
and laid out
on a mountaintop
in a heatwave
in the middle of summer.
Compression, you are
death, benevolence
the blue of the moon
hovering over
the forest.
A child
fevered and loved
down to essence,
a silvery cream
like substance.
Rabbits and endless
land
a gun,
loaded.
You are a town
in the south
abandoned.
You are sweet
coma,
the godly
swamp
of overdose.
A boy on silver
motorbike
racing through
the locked
wooden closets
of his childhood.
You are a girl
in a yellow dress
walking through a field,
humming. You are
a strong god-like
medicine
administered
by the nurse’s sweet hand.
