I was born at six in the morning so I’ve known more days
than nights. They’re piled up behind me like Corvettes
fit for the crusher; to embrace the absence
out of them, to make more room for the days to come.
Fact: if all the empty space between our electrons
and protons were squeezed out, you and I would fit
in this bucket.
You look injured, moon; a third empty, and two-thirds full
of bright white snake oil. Maybe that’s why you’re up
in the corner of the afternoon, too broken to rest.
Your nightshift starts in a few; rocking the oceans to and fro.
I’ve got plans for tonight: I’ll drive into its blankness
and just maybe it’ll be a classic. A night as perfect
as a racehorse or a fresh layer of frost.
When the day has finally talked itself out, we’ll co-create
a romance. Your bloodglow a searchlight; me revving
the engine. The radio’ll be playing and it’ll go like this: