Would Be Roadkill

Either these falls are shrinking
or this river’s high.
Traffic stops 

for you when you no longer trust. You’re walking
across blind
spots, a stone embankment and swerve 

to tease the dead. You have predicted
you would join those left-handed ghosts
when the right of way 

becomes cursed, your body,
upon impact 

a weightless parcel 

through early spring
air. It’s always an April day
just a half hour before 

sunset—civility
in dimming lights dancing off
city streets so many miles before 

the skyline disintegrates
into a watery horizon. It’s guess work,
and it’s hard to know when it will crest.

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