Which somehow, unfathomably, in an angels-bending-to-tie-
their-shoes moment, she missed. And was spared the memory
of aught else until she awoke, supine, her bones
in archipelagos, having missed her mother’s burial
(passenger seat) by two days. And, as if guilt
were moving through the cosmos as easily as
lava through a spun-sugar valley, then
had to endure the days of father with his lover,
for whom she had dusted a place with a noxious cloth
of chance (father becoming suddenly generous at Christmastime,
though meeting all her gazes with eyes hinged on trapdoors).
Chauffeur of causality, crumpled soul, sister to us all,
stop awhile. I would willingly ride with you,
nor ever fault your judgment, nor be amazed at
the acceleration from the intersection of lively things.