By the time I thought 
to call you that morning,
you were gone. We 
wouldn’t know until 
the phone rang 
an hour later, an old
friend’s voice, “There 
was an accident…” 
Now I rewind memory 
and call you an hour 
earlier than I thought 
to call. Would good 
morning be enough 
delay? If you told me
you were leaving 
and would call me 
later, would our brief 
I love you and goodbye 
make the other driver 
miss you by a minute? 
Sometimes I rewind 
further: the phone call 
in spring when we 
decided not to visit 
that summer. We 
needed to rest; you 
needed to meet 
deadlines. You 
would come to us 
in the fall. When I 
rewind my memory, 
I insist that we visit 
in summer. We 
rest at your house. 
We cook while you 
work. We drive you 
around, keep you 
safe, at least for one 
week. You could still 
come to us in the fall. 
                        

A man in a stolen truck
drives down State Line,
pants down, phone out,
meth in his blood and 
in a bag on the seat
beside him. A green light 
yields to yellow, then red.
A red light flips to green. 
A black car crawls out
into the intersection 
toward the fresh green
light. The white truck
tackles the car across 
diagonally and leaves it
on the lawn, nestled 
between two trees.
The man and woman
in the car appear to be
asleep. The man 
in the truck has a broken
arm and appears to be alive.
                        

The doctor invited me 
to stay. Tunnels led 
to more tunnels, looked
like the inside of noses 
and throats. The doctor 
vacuumed a little liquid
while he gave the tour: 
left, right, do you know 
how to tell which side 
is which? Some tunnels 
had dark red walls, 
bruises from recent
collapse. The tunnels
were empty. The lungs 
were hungry. Tunnels 
led to more tunnels, led 
to more tunnels, led 
to more tunnels, led 
to no answer. We
came back up for air.
I couldn’t wait to tell
you what I’d seen.
You didn’t wake again.