When I am overcome
        I don't know what sounds
I make. At the intersection
        on the way to my daughter's school,
often there is a soft 
        brown body: dried  
blood, mangling pressed 
        to asphalt. Did it make a muffled, 
bitter sound, a small
        surprised squeal that grew in size
until it reached the trees 
        newly flowering along the sidewalk--
But then the momentous
        often lasts just a few seconds:
the jarring that wells up
        from inside the earth 
or from something raking over it
        ripples out again, 
whatever ambition it had
        newly redistributing. 

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