Odds are that something else will kill you,
something that hasn’t already been worried
to death, the not in a million years event.
You’ll get caught in a shower of meteors. Planes
and pianos fall from the sky often enough.
I heard the screech, the metallic crumple. The sun
rose anyway, in a shattered goblet, a bubble this red
convertible could easily swallow.
The roadside altar pantomimes a warning. Daffodils
with torn throats loll beneath a string- tied cross,
pictures and messages already dissolving with weather.
Tonight’s eclipse obscures the tongue-drag of yellow
paint over smeared asphalt; the snake full of moon
wakes before dawn.
All night long, it scalloped the edge of the world.
In the morning, proceed with caution.