Tender gasoline coats the meadow –
You look half dead half the time, dear.
Children dream of willow fires and –
Why don’t you pick the car up, dear?
Violent burns open you up from below –
Can’t you hear the drumming, dear?
The young wood rumbles above us –
There’s your arm, under the gas pedal, dear.
Silent death echoes from all around –
Here’s our son, bright red in the ditch, dear.
The drumming of failure screams again –
Here are my innards, but where’s my head, dear?
The wild fires merge into a whisper –
Oh, dear, the dog’s been skewered on the STOP sign, dear.
Biting rain stings at the violent meadow –
And such great care we took with the car, dear.
Cruelty slips in among the failings –
We’re dead, dear.