The Accident

He made the rear lookout a ripped gash,

her, lonely with child pulls her brown coat,

Asian temper holding a leg, with vital

white hair, think of it as bowing before

death-we steer like meteors, we pass

the hard light.

I don't feel the earth quake, fiddling

with colored tabs, desire for rain,

I did not feel the vibrate

of your canyon, or white call.

A gadget to count, to sort and private,

the bug stands by, a broken streak of

vapor, silver curiosity, the armored

car man plays with his gun and

counts the money.

Now on the usual street are matter of

flat purple flowers. You looked like

a grape, all the tender mercies

are over, the building saw the accident.