Sex or Undergrown Parking Garage by Ellery Beck

Tomorrow, I’ll plant your post-

      sun, bury you in concrete cracks and unlit

skies, praying— you’ll bloom still. If you grow, you’ll need

      water, but I’ve only known streams of white and yellow, of blur—

traffic. Somehow, everyone has a you, a parked

      somewhere, a firefly far enough peripheral that it spills

and shoots, already star. And, already I’ve made my walled-in

      wish just to turn, to find my hands gripping

the wheel so yours stay still—silence

      in place of distance. You don’t reach, so I’ll lace

my lips with lyric, or let smoke grow or paper

      sink or—no, all you’ve taught me is the static of gas

pedals, the hurt of never landing, and this hope: never letting go enough to fall.