It's dizzy at the crossroad: look
left, look right, here is traffic
falling through the air, here
a bruise speeding round the bend,
and from across the street
a fracture knowing the precise
place to land. 
                     Now the lanes
are blocked. Life becomes
a detour. No plans are honored
beneath a wounded sun.
What to do, and who
to call?
          Best to cancel the rest
of the day, leave the double
yellow lines for bad luck
to follow. An ambulance calls
from down the road, red lights
asking which way to go,
and spins to a stop
where a head wound asks
for urgent help.
                       But everything’s
under control. The transfusion
begins, of replacing memory
with sunlight through a tube.
                        

The evening sun burns down to a last
romantic glow across
the wounded sky. Shockwaves from the accident
still run  along the ridgeline
 
until there is no rock to hold them
and the therapist asks
the mountain if it hurts along the crack the sudden
 
blow created. She is looking ahead
to the time the Rock Wrens
will be nesting, already taking notes
on how the temperatures will change along
the hidden canyons, and assessing
 
the scars that run downslope.
It came from nowhere
say the sparrows, it was fate with wings
say the dry mesquite, it was
 
nobody’s fault but the moon’s says the peak
grown higher than time.
And the therapist puts a finger on
 
creation’s pulse while she reels in
the horizon. She rolls it around
her finger, feels infinity tighten, and concludes
with I think we’re done here.