Contact
Contact
The rumble strip that wakes the teen
Who’s fallen asleep driving her friends
Home from the mall is kinder than
Countless human beings though
It is only a strip of corrugated asphalt.
Same too with the net of woven wire
That catches the man who jumps
Off the bridge, having resisted
The urge to look down before
He leapt lest he lose heart.
Same too with the ramp designed
To stop runaway trucks in the mountains.
The tracks in the sand are signs
It happens. If aliens were to see
These inanimate things we place
In the way of future strangers,
They might hover closer, inspired
To make contact and deliver to us
The exquisite jewels mined
Out of the red dirt of their planet,
The light of which heals,
Until they get close enough to
See what we do to each other.