Wisdom

Technically I saw it before it
Happened. The fog machine,
No bell, no horn, no light save
Mine. The three of them there
In quick prophecy, the little
Glance forward, stepping out
In front of me, the horrific
Shattering of bodies, the air,
And car. But I slowed during
The preview, And still they
Waited for me, coming to meet
me... I could not stop again.
She watched me,  then leaped
Through the warning sight, sliding
Across the red hood, dimpling the
Fender, smearing her bloody nose
Along the glass, landing upside
Down, like a stiff-legged toy. My
Watch had stopped, there were
Fireflies highlighting her as she
Lay in a whorl of high grass. Then
Rolling and rising she was gone
Zipped away in the fog, leaving
Only an impression, alive, rising
In its own orderly way. In a few
Days this grass would not recall
Anything. The wind would comb it
Like Elvis after a nasty fall. Until
Things were good, and the memory,
Not quite dry in that wind, was only
Mine.