All of my best lines are accidents.

You cannot generate an accident.
You can only put yourself

in harm's way.
But harm has a way

of finding you when
all you want is predictable

not accidental.
Your bodywork,

yesterday so stylishly
smashed up, today

just random sobbing constellations
strewn across the blacktop

of State Highway 1.
The hawk hunts in the afternoon.

The car dislodges him
from connoisseurship of

an earlier collision —a moment's
inattention rewarded

with unsought metaphor, a broken wing.