I want to think you reached your threshold
for electric heartbeats and full lungs
and burst right there on the road,
spontaneously combusted across US 60
and spread like holy water, purified the asphalt,
washed away the exhaust and marks of rubber,
the dandelions sprouting up through beer cans,
your death some grand symbol
of transcending the body,
or at least a need for nature, or even
an inciting incident that leads to rosy crosses
in the ditch, peace treaties signed in front
of the castle on the hill, more tolerance
for the weeds around everyone’s front stoop.
This was not that, though.
This was death like an upside-down urinal
or nails in a flatiron, death
by the need for bigger tires, death
for not a goddamn reason at all
beyond the scattering of spoiled venison
and a driver need one more reason
to complain about his luck.
The result is the same:
dark bloodstains on the highway, flesh torn
to pieces, a faint song from distant trees.