by T. E. Taylor
Two lives:
two lines inscribed on time and space.
Where yours began, where it was leading
I don’t know. My line was ragged, written
in a drunken hand, lurching from
one chance intersection to another.
Two roads,
one junction. A node, a synapse
of society, a joining place
of journeys, and of two lines: one straight,
serene and unaware; and one propelled
that night by alcohol and gasoline.
Two seconds:
Two cries of terror, two lives flash
before four eyes, twin drummers pounding,
a shrill duet of screeches, rushing
to crunching climax: two lines
connecting at a single point.
Two facts:
Nature does not permit two things
to occupy the same location.
Once the tracks have come together
there can be no uncrossing; lines
once unwound cannot be reeled in.
Two images:
Flashing lights surround a space criss-crossed
by yellow tape; inside and out
the flow of human life congeals.
X marks the spot where your line ended
and mine dived headlong into darkness.