Aurora Perforations

The night
is smears
of yellow
green
and red
boiling
on the cooper's
windshield.
Bean said
'windshield road
is just a dotted line.'
I think
it's more of
a perforation.
The distance
and velocity
is pulling apart
the letters
of my name
and the teeth
of my memory.
Heading north,
passenger passing
the slower,
standing still
relative
to our
pointless hurry,
I am detached.
Later in the past
The Girl is on the phone
and I can't put
the union calendar
of motion and minutes
into the speaker.
There's a cookie
and a peanut
and the sound of
a door slamming.
And then
the woodwind
of the forced air
furnace.
Somewhere out there
you are not watching this
like most
of the things
happening that happened.