This occurred many years ago while I worked in High Point, NC:
cycle from heaves of sensations: lust, rage, rapture, anguish
to rational purpose: penetrating a genome
or driving. A shady side street camouflages a stop sign
along a familiar route.
My two-ton Lumina and an SUV
are two particles fated on a concussion course.
Barely time to slam my eyelids. Projectiles crunch.
Fiberglass and metal crumple like foil.
Glass and plastic shards ricochet on oily asphalt.
The SUV revs, vanishes around a corner.
He’s a dealer, a bystander says.
The Lumina is askew in the crossroad.
Steam rises from the hood.
In stunned rapture,
drenched as an icehouse floor,
I find bone and blood are still skin deep.
Grace if there ever was any.