BAD TRIP
Driving heedless into morning
mist, murk, stretch of turf
empty as a faithless hymn.
As a dying herd laying claim
to its tract, its stiffened limbs
working toward static paradise.
Or wheels turning, mice failing
to meet, flipping heads over
feet, for love and for pellets.
Diving headless into breakfast,
arms leaden over tabletop, last
days residue across the place mat.
Deciding what to eat.