I drive us out the front gate
of your neighborhood, past the stoplight
where, once, I missed
the light turning green
because I had leaned over
to kiss you on the cheek
and in that extra three seconds
a car barreled through the intersection
at speeds high enough to kill us,
and hold your hand
driving toward the generic office park
both of us taking turns
being silent for a year
the same streets and buildings turning
over in our heads as we move them
through us, radio on or off, doesn’t matter
now though mostly off
and in the parking lot we wait
in the Miami summer heat
I try to catch a lizard
scaling a thin dead tree
we take turns crying
for a year, on and off
occasionally holding
the other’s face we believe
if we keep a good grip
it will not disappear.