What I Should Have Said

Let’s say you’re in a car accident. Let’s say you didn’t see the stoplight,

let’s say the windshield collapses on your face, let’s say

you become past tense, your energy

dissipates throughout the universe like scattering petals on a rain soaked flower.

Let’s say all the buds gather under the leaf. The world is unfurled beneath us if only

we had the language to understand. Look what beauty the sky makes–then takes

away. Now we’re heading to the bridge where you and I are asleep in blankets on

the backseat of a car and it’s not real so we’re naked and beautiful

of course. I have little defense against all this paradox

but I hope every day when you wake up with your head against the pillow you see

the miracle whispering down from the clouds. Let’s just say

you and I are driving in a car and we’re headed towards a mountain somewhere in

New England and we’re smoking a joint I rolled, we’re listening to a mix tape I made,

and you interpret these gestures as the love that demands we whirl like

bioluminescent fish, resonating with their environment. Let’s just say love didn’t

make you feel guilty or think of hungry children in Darfur, okay? We’ll just say

you didn’t see the stoplight.