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for glimpses of my own mortality,
the only thing available
was roadkill,
squashed skunks, smashed squirrels,
decapitated deer;
and I knew I
didn't cross dark highways at night,
never once tried to stare down
the blinding head-lamps of a speeding truck;
I had to make do
with soft lights, the murmur
of jazz on the stereo,
wine and dip, jasmine scents,
the couch arrayed with cushions,
and, despite my aching
to briefly part the curtain
between this life and the next,
I still felt more like fast moving vehicle
than vulnerable creature
putting himself in the way of danger;
then you crossed my road,
then I figured staring in your eyes
would have to do |
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