One of these days it’s going to slip out
and I’ll bite the tail of it as it splashes past my teeth.
This windshield sweats, droplets flaring
into beads of light as we stop here on red.
Red. Its intensity through the wet glass dizzies me
and the creature stirs in my throat. I recollect.
I know I think I know I knew once
that I’m not allowed to preempt
to let the words get out
to kiss and tell.
You sigh and slide your left hand to twelve o’clock
your right hand to me. It clasps on mine as we wait
for the signal. No turn on red.
I can’t turn here, I can’t turn there,
in a box, with a fox, on the rocks
Jack Daniels’ gift to mankind is a spicy strength when you want to cry
and a heat in the pit of your shivering stomach.
There was heat in the joints of my knees when I saw you then,
there is heat in the back of my throat when I see you now,
and heat in this thought that makes these windows sweat,
that makes this creature tap at my teeth and pry them apart.
I try to think of anything else
of Hudson Cleaners Since 1934
Jaguar Construction Sale
Left Turn Yield on Green
Jack’s Jewelers…
that ring on your mother’s finger
that whistles low and soft of 30 years that she was sure of
Sure enough to preempt.
I try not to see diamonds in the rain tonight.
I try not to think of what I want to say to you.
I try not to ask if I’m allowed to sing you a song
if I don’t know all the words yet,
though this creature hums the tune.
I try to remember my reasons why, but
I’m preoccupied by the smell of your damp hair, by
the meaty flesh of your palm against mine.
I’m preoccupied by that voice just behind mine
that sings three words over and over;
I slide my tongue to the roof of my mouth and form
a word that ends in a bit lip.
One of these days, I’ll be too tired to remember
why not
and this creature will slip out, spread itself wide
and fly over the edge into those crystal splinterings,
into the diamond rain of a preemptive waterfall.
The car moves. Did the light change?

Here we go.