by James Croal Jackson
The blue plaster walls are cracking
which we should have
been able to see as long as
this house has stood. I catch us looking
different directions on the highway, cars zipping
through; we nearly collide something
cosmic. Meaning our souls are ready to ascend
from our bodies to some greener plane,
being that we aren’t who we used to be
to each other– that’s okay, if physics
on this shared sedan don’t match the laws
we have known. We make the rules then break
what we have made.