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.