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To John R. Harford's previous piece

The Prophet

It is like the banks of the Lethe:
black, winding, steaming asphalt.
A ferryman on stained wood wings gently circles
on the steaming meat zephyr high above.
My gaze meets his and he knows
one foot out onto the road,
my gaze follows that carrion dance
graceful and slow.

Tractor-trailer accident,
above, waltzing, dreaming of.

In those crystal ball eyes
he daydreams me killed.
His gaze meets mine and he knew
from the pooling red, he pulls my spine.