Friday, April 30, 2010

After the Accident


seatbelts hanging us upside/down
can’t feel my right wrist

still a little stoned on teenaged sex
and the fight about the cupholder

a branch nods through the windowshield,
the car ticking like a wind-up toy slowing/down

shattered safe-tee light in my hair,
I unfasten and fall to the ceiling

crimson and clover/over and over/crimson and
still on the radio

(you crawl as if you had lost something small)

a slow volcano bump begins on my forehead

leaves fluttering down from the tree
we crushed

voices outside

a shouting like children in sprinklers.

2 comments:

Ron. said...

I'm bruised just reading this; know that stop-time, slo-mo, everything only visual except the radio that doesn't know you've crashed...Salute!

Billy said...

nice. i love i fall to the ceiling.