Do you think that you’ll make it
to Tulip Road?
Or are you just driving to drive
driving right by
in the fog
with your headlights obscured by some other flower?
Though their petals are closed,
your ghostly partner
pleads to step on the brakes.
But no brakes for you.
Each stem snaps in the wind
of your hasty retreat,
tilted finally to the earth,
heavenly reach thwarted,
a failed mission
muted
for good.
Odilonvert 