her dreams
are not the same as mine:
to be a dancer
wrapped in garments
catching death at a wheel,
her whole life
thrown out of a car

but, when I think of
all the days
leaping forward across the stage
and always forward,
hardly a step for memory
and the midday late summer sun
ablaze in the pigment in her hair
―those eyes―
I drive a smile across my face and
break away / pull over
from the backseat of my heart
to set the wheel, set the clutch
and profess my love
for the waking

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