three bags of soybeans from an unsecure load.
a hill in somewhere, ohio. four cars. two pickups.
one drunk driver. one teaspoonful of fate (heaping).
mix. did you lose adhesion with the road, sir?
hell, yes.

this recipe: one 22 year-old man. one tree --
and mr. sandman. we buried you the day before
my 22nd birthday. your parents reminded me how much
i loved you. one teaspoonful of fate snagged a
memory: heather, keep me company so i
don't fall asleep. we traveled too many roads.

one month later i turn at your voice. it is
only my creation. i was your orchestra when
you performed. human pride drove that two-year wedge.
not everyone can handle cancer; i sure as hell
can't deal with death, but i would've said appropriate
goodbyes. you were blond this year, a stranger
when they closed your lid.

i seek tennyson for comfort but not crossing the bar.
instead -- i remember how you always laughed at my
silly-girl recitative: i babble on the pebbles.
for follows:

and out again i curve and flow
to joint the brimming river.
for men may come and men may go
but i go on forever.

one cup of regret.
eight ounces of swallowed pride.

hli (8/30/94)
revised (9/30/94)