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: