on the highway, so when I said, I worry about things
I can't control, you told me the pitchfork
I carry in mind stabs inwards,
like the day was sun-filled, but what I saw
was how I bumped the planter of Gerber daisies
and the moth fluttered up into the beak of a bird.
Death and dinner. A minor accident and something dies.
Like the woman who drove to work crying in her car
and when I saw her, she waved, a reflection in the glass,
the good fortune of having a job to drive to, but the collision
of sadness in the left ventricle of a heart. Who can hold
a knife without thinking for just a second, which vein
is the most useful
to slice into? Most everyone, you say,
as you dull-down the ends of my pitchfork, most
everyone, you say as you unlock the door to our house.