Seventy in a twenty-five

The car flipped, we exchanged ground for sky,
and in that second, you and I
found the truth more solid than ever before.
My right hand gripped yours,
the left white-knuckled the steering wheel,
and the autumn sun tiptoed through the windshield like
a disco-ball slow dance on fire.

Baby, the truth is,
sometimes we’re a forty car pileup
and nothing will ever fix that.