Much had transpired in the phantom realm:
Are we whole now? Louise asked.
I think we are, the other said.
And from the mirror: no longer blue in the face, and vague;
only destiny's dove bending a broke wing and beckoning.
The ride had been open and long, the car resplendent.
What rapture, this rode into sunset. This elegant end
where a band tugs a sleeve,
a hand labors with an illusion
of waving away a thread. And then they came to something
big: down the block, winking red lights and a crowd
of compelling circumference.
They were one with the woman, her rosacea face,
the snapdragon terrier, ten men in black helmets, a man supine
on a stretcher. O the good and the evil of accident.
They were wary, and justifiably so. The mind says no,
Louise admitted, but the heart, it loves repetition
cat’s paw from under the bedskirt,
dainty wile, frayed thing,