First she drove by a dead cat, it was off by the side of the median, probably thrown there – white with black markings. 

Not much later, she hit a swerve just around a curve – a dead deer. Et tu?

Driving in her car, its morning quite early and the sky is a sunless periwinkle tint of white grey haze.

And then a bird flies right at her and what – where did it go? under the car! and she’s thinking she heard a thump, OH NO, did she kill it? Dead cat dead deer — dead bird?

Dead dead and dead. A threesie. Follow follow follows. Shock, anger, curses. The dead and she are suddenly miraculously symbiotic of the same imputing cosmological constant.

Everywhere in the car, the world is pyschomantically attuned.

1-2-3 make it bleed. And one under her wheel! Like an extortion by secret demonologies to crash into bone, get lost in fatal fallen wings – like death itself

being behind enemy lines –

like a parachute trooper, way of course, lost from target – 

Oh sweet hell, fallen, once again, into a tidy sum of dizzying slaughter.

A mornings jug, down the throat of time, jeepers reapers, will not be denied, gug gug gug. Threesies. Exponentially alert to all things exsanguinate.

And from it – flow all flowers, Frankensteins rose, funereal glimpses, the silence, bloodguilty, aimless and stolen. 

Three deaths and none of them mine mine mine and all of them mine mine mine, and every time she says mine, she strikes the steering wheel.

A cat, a deer and a maybe a bird. How greeting corpses can hike on the Pennsylvania Turnpike. 

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