The Buick of my enemy has screamed
off the Coast Road in California
and mangled on the cliff rock
where it fell. I have pulled over
by the beach to stare at the steaming
wreckage with glee.
The body of my enemy has been pulped
by the steering wheel and gear-shift,
the shattered windshield,
crumpled dash.
His eyeball, dangling on an optic nerve,
makes me want to puke, but I don't turn away.
The screenplay of my enemy has blown
along the coast. Pages float
In the sea mash where it hits the sand
and pages flap in the air.
Vultures are coming from the canyon.
They have come to pick the bones.
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