Sometimes small animals and birds go scattering

in front of my car as though they fall

under the protection of the god Mo Shun,

deity of speed, The chipmunk’s calculated


Burst, the skimming of sparrows, while

the real Monk and the real Charlie Rouse

go caromming around the car’s interior,

through the most improbable of changes.


We learn to travel faster than the speed of self,

The scenery glancing off the windshield-

Fields four-wheelers, farmhouses-

most alive when we’re running for our lives,


As chords (Trinkle, Tinkle now) scatter behind

As though the world for once really belongs

As much to the quick as to the dead.


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