5-28 Son Day

This occurred many years ago while I worked in High Point, NC:


Our Worlds


cycle from heaves of sensations: lust, rage, rapture, anguish

to rational purpose: penetrating a genome


or driving. A shady side street camouflages a stop sign

along a familiar route.


My two-ton Lumina and an SUV

are two particles fated on a concussion course.

Barely time to slam my eyelids. Projectiles crunch.

Fiberglass and metal crumple like foil.

Glass and plastic shards ricochet on oily asphalt.


The SUV revs, vanishes around a corner.


He’s a dealer, a bystander says.


The Lumina is askew in the crossroad.

Steam rises from the hood.


In stunned rapture,

drenched as an icehouse floor,

I find bone and blood are still skin deep.


Grace if there ever was any.