breakdown lane ends.
the oil leaks but there is nothing else to use.

it must come. mustn’t it?
weren’t we always warned?

the mouth is dry. teeth dance and bite as they fold,
clacketing against the keys.

if there was blood on the floor
it would be easier,

it would be film-familiar
but no, shrubs crowd

from woods as they have always done,
the sky is low with rain or sun

as it always is; be careful,
here’s the bridge, too narrow,

but when we’re half way over
we see the other side.