Reflects

They haven’t put lines down on this tarmac, nothing
slicing into the night of this road but the passing

stars of reflectors each one too bright in the starburst
of my eyes that says my glasses are scratched,

need cleaning. That might push lost stars back
into the sky firmly, like a thumb on a syringe,

a candle shoved past the frosting into the cake.
If I hunkered over the plastic, cupped my hands,

my t-shirt billowing out, my headlights off, could I
huddle my nose close enough to the sticky cindered ground

to see them spark up to me with their own light?
I had a jacket that glowed in the dark. It rustled

and hung extinguished in the closet. I had eyes
that could see in the dark, follow such a faint trail

someone would stumble behind me, trip on a rock,
on nothing, on the air where a rock should have been.

Now I have glasses. Headlights. Road. And go.
Go on abiding by the lit-up edges of the world.