if i could talk, i'd tell you

you pack the sky into the trunk of your car;

on an overcast, hindsight is always on sale.

i count miles like sheep // in a lucid dream //

roads move toward me, rolling in a high tide.

ii.

everyone will say, 'i want to spell your body with a k',

your lips, from the start, tasting of last summer's rain;

saliva infects the etymologies of your favorite words; 

roots that pull meaning down, leaving sweet nothings.

iii.

you inspect a canvas straitjacketing its paint;

the color, like a revolutionary, has intensified.

any history is a fetal heart, refusing to abort,

beating impalpably with the same electricity

that we cannot insulate from when in love.

we both think, from afar, "if i could talk, i'd tell you".