Remember when you pulled back the hood
of your car and there was a garden? No,
there was only your myocardial infarction
and I-75 extending onwards until it flooded
with neon lights and incinerated
itself. But, let’s get out and stretch
limbs and lungs wide, jumping over moonroofs
into a campground in the backcountry. Take out
the body bag and unzip it. I will stitch us in.

We’ll awake to sunlight and rise up like a double-
headed worm, wondering where the wildflowers
come from and if they’d mind riding in the two-seater,
agreeing that it’s a perfect morning to stop huffing gas
and put things in neutral, singing funeral hymns in slap-
happy voices as we wriggle up off of the ground to pee,
I am weary let me rest. Realizing we’ll have to risk
separation, you can’t stand up when I am squatting.