the crash

i'm eating chalky gravel.
my teeth lay next to the road,
and i dare not move. my thumb shows
muscles, inverted, red stems which do
not lead to green flowers. maybe
in time.

it is nighttime, and
my blood either dries or freezes.
my ear is pressed against the road,
and i would like to believe, on the other side,
i can hear a mother talking kindly to her son.
perhaps it is christmas morning and they are
making breakfast. i would like to believe
happiness lays somewhere i cannot see.

an ambulance is not coming. nobody
will find this road for years. and
this is no movie scene, where they will say,
"she is pinned by a semi. these are
your last moments to speak to her."

(see: how to make a believer
into a nonbeliever. see: how to
lose your hope as quickly as you
lose her.)

it isn't like that.
i'm stuck. and if i had
wanted to die, i would not be.
and if i had wanted to survive,
which i did, i would be dying.
and i am dying.

(she's, he's
dead, dying,
still laying
on a cold ground.)