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.