The Accident

Larry Rubin

A lump in the fog, something looming through
The milk that curdles in my eyes, and tangled
Trees tighten their dead twigs. Alert
Even in that white trance, I see
The branches curling barely into a wet smoke
That still thickens before the moving form.
The trunks are torsos of the dead, and none
May move but shadows through the forest of
The fog. The avenue of vapor swells,
As the lump hunches toward my face. I tighten
Into twigs. The thing grows upon its legs,
Fronted with eyes that level with my own,
And my gun is soft upon the fog, before
I see.