He drives, she mostly sleeps; when she’s awake, they quarrel, and now, in a violet dusk,
a rangy, raw-boned, efficient-looking mongrel loping toward them down the other shoulder
for no apparent reason swerves out on the roadbed just as a battered taxi is going by.
Horrible how it goes under, how it’s jammed into the asphalt, compressed, abraded, crumpled,
then is ejected out behind, still, a miracle, alive, but spinning wildly onitself, tearing,
frenzied, at its broken spine, the mindless taxi never slowing, never noticing or caring,
they slowing, only for a moment, though, as, “Go on,” she says, “go on, go on,” face averted,
she can’t look, while he, guilty as usual, fearful, fascinated and uncouth, can’t not.