It feels like a comet disintegrating
just before it nears the sun—
no radiant trails of ice,
nothing to see.

It’s like an unexpected mudslide.

A killing shot in the inky dark
that makes no sense.
A half-built house—
blood smeared
on the wall,
weeds on the windowsill.

It’s the bus mirror that almost clipped
your kid in the head.
Snow and static
on the tv.
The doctor’s face at two a.m. struggling
to show nothing.

Like the urge to jump,
to cut, to release the safety bar
while the roller coaster flips
everyone over. You lose your glasses,
your contacts, your prosthetic arm,
your cane—

The selfie you didn’t mean to take.
The call you shouldn’t have made.
The tree in the storm that just missed
your bedroom.

The one that didn’t.