Fucked

There would be an end to it. The road a slick
dissolving in windy snow, unreeling over

the nothingfields of Minnesota. Easy
to whack a person on because—tonight

where could he hide, after the car one-eightied
in a drift, prisms of snow going red? And he

a sweet guy after all, mouthing snow
like hope, pleading, just because he had

witnessed wrongful death. Well, isn’t any
death wrongful in this world of buds?