you watch
you can barely see beyond
a huge blackbird
on a branch, dark and somber
like the letters of
an obituary
placed on a line
by a pair of trembling hands

there will be rain,
heavy, so travel wise,
the woman on the radio
says—
you haven’t feared death
traveling
in public buses
(do we divide death
among fellow travelers,
you wonder,
can you
die only a little
so that you’re still alive?)

the ominous bird takes off
and time smudges
the obituary

you walk into
your room
pulling curtains down is cumbersome
“it is not
what you think it is“,
you remember your
girl’s words
please please please
you find yourself muttering

hopelessly

and you remember:
a rainy afternoon
you are running homeward,
wet and weather-beaten,
an old car
pulls up,
hop in, the guy
in the car says—

you hop in!