Crashed

Skin-to-tarmac, I feel

liminal. A touch of

tyre on my lips

and oil on my chin,

my hands

plunge through

the tainted

asphalt.

Beneath,

I sense vibrations

through my fingers:

the drones of

heaving Fords,

tracing vessels

below the skin.

What funny dreams

These vehicles hold,

where laughter bobs

in alloy cages.

I wish these voices

would break

those metal-thin walls

and merge, like traffic,

and slow to a crawl.

Behind,

I hear the thrum

of an engine,

that mangled wreck,

which threw me

oh so-far, until

I tasted

tarmac.

[Originally published, with an illustration, in From the Lighthouse, Issue 3]