getting home

was the race car bed a 
coffin or a pew? plastic blue.
i'm making a steering wheel out 
of the pillows i left
in the basement. there's not
enough bones in our bodies
to keep them all, the sun 
catcher in the window,
the pastel drawings still
rolled under the bed in 
my parents house. 

i wanted to use 
the race car bed
to take us home, with 
all the sky scrapers 
coming apart into dice,
into knuckles. glittering
like teeth among the 
graffiti ghosts. 

she'll crawl a building just
to write your name
loud & wide. 

a seat belt is for 
sleep & you say 
the train ride home 
is melancholy
at night. 

yellow lit world.
the snapped twigs.
the abandoned diner 
harboring morning,
sun in the stove.
it feels later 
than it is, the 
wings of my watch 
asking us to dance.

admit to each other
that every stranger 
in the dark is a reminder
of the body

the race car bed:
our god driving somehow
without an engine or
a mattress,

spurred by maybe by
the promise of a lamp or
our bodies becoming 
hydrangea bushes.

i tell you bed time stories
that always un-tether me,

a red string tied to a city,
oh astronaut.

this is how we get home.