Natural Selection – A poem.

Drive away from broken plates
and broken words. Away from angry
hands fueled by god knows what.

Rubber burns, brakes and voices
scream as hands crank the wheel
to avoid the deer. Hidden by weather—
not quite snow, but not quite real.
Headlights dance, crack and splinter
into tiny fractals that litter the road
with diamonds and blood.
Blood and fur and antlers.

Air bag pillows, the first
explosion that’s good.
Bruised, but walk away.
Avert eyes from the dark
and glinting road.


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