She suggested walking at night
when the sky was relatively clear.
There you’d find poetry, scraps
tucked into moments – an ocean
of yellowed nightlights defying
an absent sun. There’d be more
luck there than in off-white rooms
all filled with glowing screens
and things too like life.
It’s more like ink than blood,
despite the implications of writing
your death on the page quite so
failingly, haltingly literally.
It’s more like life than not,
despite a general lack of vigour
and movement and love and passion
calling you to rise instead of
midday sunbeams burning your eyes.
They drove without looking at each other
for the longest time.
She was scared she’d turn and see
a tornado, twisting upward, grasping houses
and diners and schools and friends.
That’s not what she see’s; it’s
a flash of blue
at the steering wheel, eyeing a future
marked on the road in front of them.