When I see taillights for the first time in hours,
I think about how, in my mind,
each day unhooks itself from the next

so that I can no longer see back to what I had in my coffee yesterday, or
the face of a downy musician whose head floated sideways like an owl, or
my driver’s ed partner who was too scared to merge onto the interstate,

—can it really be that I broke my right arm two Junes in a row? Or did it crack in two ways,
in and out, like perspective
all at once?—

and the shining ice patches on the road glow by a moon that’s been trailing me since girlhood
(or maybe it fell behind for a while, but caught up with me just now)
my memories won’t stack on top of each other so that I can climb up them and 
see over the brick wall that is right smack in front of my nose

A hill carries me to its crest and pulls me down its other side,
I wonder, if I shift into reverse
would it all come out the same?