Cafes have novels in their walls.
More than a place. Encyclopedia staved
in bed cushions, speaking from the plush
the one-line miracles you exhaled
falling down your backyard hill
or almost crashing your deadened car.
It's split where you dive for inner sense
that doesn't pale in the absence of make up
on a story you wanted to tell by loud sign language.
More red than traffic lights, a sustained latch
when the night illumination heard you wrong,
reciting your name as somebody else.