Crashed

Illustrated by Tula Wild.

Skin-to-tarmac, I feel

liminal. A touch of

tyre on my lips

and oil on my chin,

my hands 

plunge through 

the tainted 

asphalt.

Beneath,

I sense vibrations

through my fingers:

the drones of

heaving Fords,

tracing vessels

below the skin.

What funny dreams

These vehicles hold,

where laughter bobs

in alloy cages.

I wish these voices

would break 

those metal-thin walls

and merge, like traffic,

and slow to a crawl.

Behind,

I hear the thrum

of an engine,

that mangled wreck,

which threw me

oh so-far, until

I tasted 

tarmac.