new car

i don't want a new car. i want
a cave that no one knows about 
but me. i want the bats to take me
as one of their own. i want to grow
thick black fur just like them.
i want a flower with an eye in the middle.
for it to wink at me & tell me 
a really verdant secret. i want to not worry
about maps & about backseats. 
i want the world to shrink to the size
of a coffee cup. to be able to reach
for every kind of bird i need. i don't want
to stand at a gas station & fit my prayers
beneath my tongue. i don't want
to look for gods in neon signs. 
i want a sun that tastes sour & sweet. i want
a someone to lay with. for the walls
to stop shivering. i tell them, "you are
not allowed to be cold too." i don't want
a car, i want a body with legs so tall
that i can walk across the whole earth 
in only a few strides. looking down
at everyone else & their traffic jams
& their shot-gun seat poetry. 
i want a deer who comes back each night
& eat apple slices from my hand. i want
a train that runs on promises. a window
without a ghost in it & another with. 
the hungry lists birth each other.
my fingers, shaking in the caramel light
of a withered bulb. i wash my skin. 
find mice in the utensil drawer again.
i ask them, "can you tell me how you find me
wherever i live?" they do not answer
& i don't blame them. i don't want a car
not even when your headlights 
wash the house & i know you've come home.
i want us to start returning like worms.
up from the dirt. braided.