Towards my chill house in this sloppy weather,
hands on the cold wheel, hoping there'll be a fire,
slush on the glass, past an accident,
then another. Somewhere there's one more,
mine. In a minuet we just
miss each other, in an accident
we don't. Dance is intentional but
did you miss me or
not, was it too close
to the bone for you, was that
pain, am gone? Nothing's
broken, nevertheless I'm skinless,
the gentlest touch would gut me.
Slowly, slowly, nobody wants a mess.
I float over the black roads, pure ice.
- Margaret Atwood