Along the road, haze of sulfur and blue,
An accident has or was or will:
Death hovers, though we don’t know whose.
In one scene, water bursts through,
In another, the edge of things
Grows toxic, sharp as claws.
Years pass. I take my father’s car
And hurl it like a toy
Till flames engulf it,
Realize I must tell my mother
That he’s dead.
Solitude is not this endless walk
Through liminal trees,
But the fear of truth:
What could be bearable
Cannot be shared.