Spring: the edges and middles
of these roads blossom
with corpses, racoon, possum, crow-

lunch, bodies bloomed rosy
into meat and gut, colors
saturated. Eye catching

until the eye learns better.
The slow skunk
lingers in brief afterlife

either because the tail sacs
burst on impact
or because it tried

to warn off what was coming.
Pond turtle crushed to lotus.
Last week the fox flung itself

under my fender—Last week
I hit a fox—Last week my car—
I could make this a poem

about old lovers. I do
worry, slowing down and then
farther down, about being.

able to get anywhere.
The thoughtful driver watches
out at all times, maintaining

an easy and natural grip.
I check my fluids weekly,
night after night dream a dim

on-ramp crowded with faint
shapes, fur thick behind
the ears, under my fingers,

my lights, while the back legs jerk
a couple of times. I don't
see for the life of me

how I'd ever end that poem.
My species is all crazy,
think of it, mammals with wheels.











From Poetry Magazine Vol. 187, no. 5, February 2006. Used with permission.