The Meeting

It took me some seconds as I drove toward

the white pillow case, or was it a towel

blowing across the road, to see what it was.

In Long Island near the sanctuaries

where there are still geese and swan,

I thought a swan was hit by an automobile.

I was afraid to hurt it. The beautiful creature

rolled in sensual agony,

then reached out to attack me.

Why do I feel something happened on the road,

a transfiguration, a transgression,

as if I hadn’t come to see what was,

but confronted the white body,

tried to lift, help her fly,

or slit its throat.

Why did I need this illusion,

a beauty lying helpless?