Sunday, 4am

Subcutaneous fat


More than road rash

Maybe it’s easier to recite insect orders

Neuroptera, Megaloptera, Mecoptera

Than think about all the moths flying

Into the glare of emergency lights

Red white red white red white

Subcutaneous fat, blood spattered on pavement

Orthopera, Hemiptera, Diptera

The horse’s corpse two miles up the highway

Unrelated, but, 

Same time of death

0230, 0231, 0232

It’s a different number wherever I ask

And on his daughter’s clock, he’s still alive

He hasn’t struck a deer

Hasn’t laid down his bike

Hasn’t been run over one two three—

maybe four different times 

Who hit this man?

The same person who hit the horse?


I want to go back to feeding earwig colonies cat food


I want to go back to sterilizing bee hotels


I want to go back to counting caterpillars 

in a room that’s controlled by an app on a phone

and why is it always this same stretch of highway?

and why is is always with this same partner?

and why can’t I stop imagining her say hurry up, baby, hurry up

Before another car struck him right before her eyes—

I hope she does have a concussion

Hope she never remembers that pitch black night

Illuminated only in headlights

Taking her man apart piece by piece, pavement riddled with human meat

I think the deer and the horse suffered less, together, than he did


Scattered along across some forty yards

Two hours on scene and still the answers evade me

My coffee smells like blood

The skin on my hands is dry

My partner and I are both still awake

A small part of me says,

There is still a 52 degree room of 116 caterpillars out there, 

unaware of everything, shitting as quickly as they feed on Carex stricta


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