Tell me instead what you see when you
let the windshield water run. Those runes
of your shadow self, the light between dark
fanged wantings, these are dangers to read.
But you’re not seeing, you’re looking. Afraid
of smoothing memories, of losing seasons,
you turn, the mirror a shimmering wave
in your wake. Today is mostly the space
you slump in between yellows and reds,
like highway puddle and taillight glare
are your landmark, the lighthouse you aim for
through mist. Tomorrow, you might miss
how concrete is unyielding; today, you
look at water, a river, curious, blue, carving.