'''''

The possum's tension is not poise.
His back is breathing.
Infinity is not within his eyes.
He flinches on the tar.
I match him for a stillness
then we move.

He's into the bushes, I'm dissolved
to the headlights and concrete.
Cars have killed enough of our kinds,
and he is without what we call,
the drivers are all dead tonight: I think.