where did we park the car?

meander is a word
that tastes like dusk-- 
we parked the car
somewhere near 
the number 17
pinned to a lamp post--
what if we never find it?
walk parking space to 
parking space 
read license plates--
we forget each other's
names-- naturally
as you begin to loose
everything once you become
aware that you are dislocated--
the sensation of falling
sets in & 
i want to ask
the boy walking with
me if his name is Billy
& if he's my brother but
i'm also frightened
that i don't know him at
all-- that it was just me
who lost his car in the parking
lot & the lamps
go out one by one 
as if to give up on
me & my search
for the road home--
what happened to 
the road?
what was i doing here
anyway? a zoo?
an amusement park?
we came here to the parking
lot to 
get out of our bodies
for a little--
to peel up highway
veins from paper map--
there he is that's god--
un-threading me--
un-stiched & coming
undone in the parking
lot-- shadow
giant walking--
i shake the earth
with my massive form--
this is the kind
of earth quake that there
is no hiding from--
one that breaks the earth
like a host of bread--
this is my body
this is my body 
break this in memory
of me--
in memory of parking
spaces-- in memory 
of birthday cards in 
my glove box-- her
name his name--
this is another
poem where i write 
the word 'body'
over & over again
in attempt 
to figure out what it
means-- as if i could
speak that word enough
times to find my way
back to my own--
my body is vapor
& asphalt--
hot hot hot by the sun--
burn your feet on
me when he takes 
your shoes--
this is me in the parking
lot walking back to
my body-- gripping
the steering wheel of
my green volvo alone--
if i had a brother
he was never walking with
me-- when i was 
little i used to wonder
what we would do 
if we couldn't find the
car-- i would image us 
sitting on a curb
as night draped us
with cool air & turned
our shadows into monsters--
we would sleep there
all
together-- maybe in
an empty parking space--
maybe just backs 
against street lamp--
& god would turn them
off one by one
until the only glow 
was the moon 
on our pale skin--
hold my hand 
i would
say to 
Uncle Rich or
Mom or Dad 
hold my hand 
i say 
to myself--
& he does--
laces his cold fingers
in mine & i'm
not sure which of
us owns a body 
& which one of us
is walking back
searching for body or
car or 
parking space--
bolted to the lamp post
we believe in a god
& the number 17