Do you ever become fixated
on a windshield, a single spot
out of the corner, your right eye
Hidden in her spotlight,
Underneath blind-side’s hairline
Pleading dissociation’s mistress
To mercifully kiss your temple
Before death’s chauffer gear shifts
your grip on the door handle
To just . . . pull inward;
Do you ever become . . . a single spot . . . on a passing windshield?