[I’ve stopped believing in death]


and traffic lights. Some nights
I place an animal, stuffed, 
on the passenger seat and drive
through town with the windows
down. I turn up the radio
and ask the weather to cry
us out. In this one all the crows
caked to the pavement still beat.
In this one every dead deer
remembers what it was like
to feed off the sweet low vines
of cherry trees. I make a bed
with wine in the laid-out trunk
and tell the invisible driver
to push into fifth and scream
the tires out of transmission.
In this one I’m the animal,
the passenger seat, the bottle
of liquid gods drinking itself
dry. The moon sticks to the sky
like a firefly. The stars shred
into goose down. I swear everything
twitches if you tell it long enough
it doesn’t exist and can’t ever.

Philip Schaefer / March - April  2016 Issue