There’s a light on the wall that keeps track of my breath from a watch on my wrist that rests on my chest.
There’s the sound of a truck rolling steadily west with a newborn baby inside.
There’s a puff of white smoke that keeps disappearing just above our old house where a young boy could play.
There’s a mark on the pavement where a car started spinning and a marker where someone may lay.
There’s a light in the road, small on the horizon, between I and they who may find...
Another boy’s chest rising just slightly west of our house if their light grows in time.
Rising and falling, writhing and calling, a noise and then nothing at all...
When a new light defines a heart beating in time from the shadows cast on my wall.
Do you ever remember catching your breath? Did you dream again that you drown?
Could you fall back asleep or will you always be waiting for that westerly tire-hum sound?
