You Met Me in Traffic
You met me in traffic,
laced and unbound,
slowly moving westward.
At first there was static,
and then the steering wheel
became a child’s drum set,
a pause and then a handprint.
I pointed at signs and you read them
all wrong; stating with certainty that
each and every symbol was another word
for the sound dusk makes when it blossoms
into an oceanic wave of headlights.
A moth flew into your window and you
imagined what would happen if it chewed
off your sleeves. What I did, was pull over
and brush the powder off your wings.