accident 74 on holyrood

there has never been anything but the smoking door,

the smashed pole, the roundabout turned flat by

the rammed body of the delivery truck. upright, at least;

but deflated of all his usual energies: swearing,

cackling, adjusting the sweat brim of his hat to sit

between his temples and above his glasses. the ever-pulling

presence of time yanking his shoulders towards his ears.

it was always this job, that he never meant for it to become more

but in fact it was, it was, every node of his life was

connected to this veiny engine, this vessel, now smoking.

bumper wrenched off and lying like a whale’s broken jawbone.

yet: nothing has been so simple as the collision.

that momentary jerk, the slip of wrists resting,

turning until the window is white with motion and

let it come slowly upon him, the sailing weightlessness,

the unlatching of time. motion flows through unparticular space,

parting the blood tides of his body, winding through

his nerves, leaching out the other side of him,

then closing, snap shut,

his father’s briefcase, his mother’s polaroid camera,

metal striking metal and making meat of his car.

airbag inflating like a white, poisonous mushroom,

that hinging of time becoming, at once, forced shut again,

bringing him here, to his moment, where the hex of

his schedule, the normalcy, the routine is

wrenched right through.