headlight bug bite

i get chewed up by your yellow yesterday 
& tossed like a shadow onto 
a chorus of trees. i drive faster
than i should because there is always
someone to outrun. do you feel like
you're being chased? well, you are.
the angel is a category of insects.
the holy ones. the ones without telephone numbers.
grease the wheels of the elsewhere maker.
i check my body 
for your bite marks. i will have to
come up with an excuse as to why
i have been letting the world eat me.
bone & dough. the wooden spoon 
in the glove box. i pull over on the side
of the road. your face is a gas station.
your headlights are teeth jutting 
into a pudding world. there is never
enough stomach to explain what happened.
instead, you have to resort 
to the realm of noise. a wrong turn.
a construction zone operating 
in the middle of the night. you come 
to find they are not dissecting the road.
they are taking apart a monument.
the monument screams, "i want to be
remembered!" i have gone too slow too.
i have driven into a wreckage farm 
where everyone is trying to die
in the most glorious way possible.
i want none of that. i want to 
be alive when the world is nothing
but windows. i want to look out.
i want to point & say,
"they look just like us" even when
they do not. they are angels. they are
a swarm. heaven in a pickle jar.
shake the forest & the lightning bugs
will wake up. spell your name
in the branches. say, "they can
still see you."