Bank of golden rod, bank of tall

grass: the doe and fawn

by the roadside quake, or

don’t, while the cars pass fast

and eyeless. Lidless headlights,

hatless drivers. The dog

in the median might be a stray

but he looks like a wolf

from here: white ruff of long hair,

blue eyes like signals

blink before each driver.

If you stop to gather

yourself, will you

feel the chaff fill your lungs

or does it happen

so quickly? I fail to react

to so many attendant things.