I tilt my head to the sky, see whether Andromeda
is listening. Just a human being, I lose it, reach
for the ceiling. Our paisley wreckage paints my veins
like rush hour; still I picture the morning sun when I
sat on that bench, not knowing you were so close.
I tilt my head to the sky. The half moon perches above
the tree line, bright in the afternoon: perfect contradiction.
I dreamed we drove a truck into a lake; I woke up before
we drowned and still wonder how that scene might pan out.
Drowning, they say is among the hardest ways to die.
But it seems almost beautiful—no, totally beautiful,
with every myth that comes to take our breaths.
I tilt my head to the sea and listen for the Andromeda
who slipped out of her restraints and into the whitecaps.
Every monster is part rumor and part damage. tonight
the ceiling is gone if I close my eyes and sing along
with the sirens fading down the highway.