i wanted to hear the ragged
miyazaki engine hum
through a rusted-out windpipe,
but we drove up here in a lexus
with working windows and an intact radio.
instead, we listened

to a cascade of chariots wax
symphonic down the 101 south. from
the passenger seat, you watched the coast,
which, spotting the usual fare of romantics
and born-again
alchemists, whistled

after us, swallowing the
eggshells in our wake the way dawn swallows
the stars. i tried to tell it that we were neither,
that we were cicada husks
and snowtop soil and ceaseless casio blips
but i didn’t want to lie

to something so big so i just scrawled it down
on my hand. but you know, i relish the
landmine memories we’ve planted. i love
their clear skies
their suffocating traffic
and that sound they make

when their tripwires snag a
pedestrian thought, causing their contents
to go tumblingbloomingbursting out
onto the bruised
floor of our apartment
like guts dripping from an overripe piñata.

whenever the casio you bought me
goes off during class, i
stifle it, but not before smiling
to myself and unraveling like the
stretch of ocean we peeled
open with four hands on the steering wheel.