I tore the tire on too sharp a turn at too great a speed
that dark night, thinking of her, scared to death on a long ride home, my silly
brain picturing, her up north in her tower, where she’s let her hair down for
another prince to climb, limbs as engaged as those of the trees over where I am
stranded on the roadside, wind making them groan, which makes me groan, too, me
mistaking her ecstasy for the moan of pain I feel, not merely over the tire, or
being stranded, more out of being left out, not among the wild arrangement of
limbs, this happening then in late fall as the leaves tumble down on my head,
as I wait for the town truck, the moans and groans haunting me as I ache for
what she has.
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