No. 14. disorder.

found an old less-than-mediocre poem, wheeeeeeeeeeee.

few streetlights, fewer traffic lights.
I can’t seem to speak.
my speakers are broken.

bbbzzzzZZZZzzz, in stereo
until we hit another pothole

— silence.
time slows.

shy mind too content to spoil with words
a straight and steady road unwavering,
I round a blind internal curve and wait, impatient.

my eyes roll over miles of moon shadowed fields,
trained away from you, framed within frames,
for fear I won’t see what I feel.

and now the window falls, escape wisps
of silver, sparks red, sparks of energy invisible —
microscopic specks from our small cosmos, fleeing.

time folds in, a soft and stifling linen sheet,
the end of a wave rushing to reach the crest

— trapped.
it catches us

me with one hand on the wheel, twirling my hair
to keep my spare hand from straying out of my chaos
into yours, and you, turned away.