When time stops for us, maybe
Light slows down to a crawl.
You can see it coming,
An infinite, immaterial glacier—
Glittering, clear ice crystals,
But soft and warm and reassuring.
Finally your heart begins to thaw.
And you think you hear, maybe,
Deep inside, the voice of God,
No louder than a trickle.
The sun is so bright
I see only bursts
of light,
shards of your presence
hover around the edges,
your voice
a distance
I can't measure.
The trees are green again,
spring in my pocket
like a quarter
when I need change,
if I can reach that cloud
I can gather the rain
in my hands
and you can drink.
I created the beginning,
you stole the end,
the middle
killed us both.
You remain
hovering around my edges,
a stillness in my chest,
a light that glows and dims,
your voice
stabbed by someone else's
spears of sunlight,
your presence,
unaware of its power
lingers
too long
because I ask it to.
Sleet on the turnpike
in the middle of the night
but I keep driving,
both hands on the wheel,
nowhere to pull off,
and a yellow bus
comes over the line
and kisses my truck.
That's all I remember.
Now I'm in bed,
wired to things,
unable to move,
listening to a doctor
telling my wife,
"It's been two weeks,
no improvement.
"He asks her nicely
if we should let him go,
the dimwit bastard.
If I could, I'd scream
but I can't even
wiggle my toes.
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