The moonlight stacked

like white arms in

the back of the car—I carry

them out to the farthest ditch

I know. Here

the world bleeds like milk

into the sky and something

could one day happen. I refer

to my dread in bruised

throats, a fire on the ridge,

etc. The clouds like fistfuls

of hair in the road, drawn

upwards like a thumb on the

sternum. Bone yields

like snapped candy, a broken

elevator. I hear it always on

the other side of the wall.