Flash From Above

A corresponding road
that only the mind, body knows—not me—until

I am a fog in a glut of images and desires
that could come out of my fingers, penis,
mouth: I sit, apparently,
in it all somewhere as a crow comes through
the car window apparently and taps my skull while I peel my skin off
to use as a muleta out the window, if this Range
Rover fancies his chances, that is. But I see it drive over us: I am of course
a passenger, the early horns flying over
and dying without a touch from us, I know. I see. The Rover’s
wife is rolling off someone else. My driver
alerts early too and knows to stay out my way. I am contacting
my lawyers as the tradition of bullfighting will no longer be required; as I… yes—

can feel the road coming back to me as if I was only
a passenger: the cloak
was hiding my pen, watching the lines flash from above.