The out of control truck and the sinister disease.
Place as a kind of capture, wind and water blowing
chaos, fire lusting for green.
Also,  collision of love and temperament.
Season and need.   We sleep
and wake,  walk the hours with our eyes
open, gathering what might serve to clarify.
I turn too soon or not at all in the final days
of a long winter, leaving me with nothing
but a suite of bruises.   Imagine the great hand
plucking this particular soul, prayers trailing off,
shadows folded, then disappeared.
A tidiness to ruin.   I might not have made the trip
or stopped to taste the fresh honey from the pale girl
with the moon face who could only manage a slight, forced smile.
I might have rushed, hapless, into the black sea.