All of my best lines are accidents.
You cannot generate an accident.
You can only put yourself
in harm’s way.
But harm has a way
of finding you when
all you want is predictable
not accidental.
Your bodywork,
yesterday so stylishly
smashed up, today
just random sobbing constellations
strewn across the blacktop
of State Highway 1.
The hawk hunts in the afternoon.
The car dislodges him
from connoisseurship of
an earlier collision —
a moment’s inattention rewarded
with unsought metaphor, a broken wing.