sometimes, when i look
out my window
on an overcast morning,
i think i see you,
phantom of teeth
and oak splinters,
slinking through the
damp grass, winding
your way through
the oak branches that
reach toward the
secret thing in the sky,
and soaring into
the vast gray beyond.
i wonder what you
think we look like
from all the way up.
i wonder if you pay
more attention to
the birds. i wonder
if they are more
your people than
i ever really was.
in the mirror, for
a brief moment,
there you were,
a friend, one who
saw the same
shapes in the tv
static that i did,
who shared the
longing to shape
words into guitar
strings. i blinked,
and you were gone.
in your place was
a pile of shavings
that could never
be reassembled
into the lost order
of a desk and the
early morning light
shining on it.
in my car, creeping
through a forest
of leafless, craggy
pines, i wonder if
i could find you by
slamming the gas
and swerving into
that big one coming
up on the right.
would i see you
in my side mirror
from the corner of
my eye, would i
hear you singing
beneath the squeal
of the engine, would
i feel you next to
me as the airbag
shatters my arms?