Against hip, an odometer.
My bones go twenty-two miles above speed limit but no one is watching.
My blood is without signal, so the only music I hear is static and a hum of talk radio.
The check-engine light blinks against my knees and I wonder what would happen if I never turned left or right but just remained forward. Would I fall? What corporate chained coffee shop might I crash into?
It is too easy to write that I am in search of the wild I buried in Nebraska and Colorado.
It is far too complex to mention that I’ve contemplated jumping off a diving board made from rainfall and seaweed.
I threw a party for my feet somewhere between Chicago and South Dakota but they never showed up.
I collected fourteen speeding tickets while living in New York City and I never even owned a car.
When we look up and the moon is being chased by its shadow and everyone from above and below has traveled days just to see it and the one who lives beside me kisses me back into calmness while the earth grows dark like underneath soil and the water still waves even from far away and everything seems possible again.