The Blizzard of Birth and Death
I don’t want to think any more
of the one night in May
when we were slowed to a crawl
as we crossed the Ebro,
or the headwind of that gale;
mayflies on the wing,
mating in their silken millions,
drawn up from the river
to the slick of streetlamps
on smooth, dark asphalt
and each egg laid in vain.
But I keep imagining
our two shadows behind
every wave, each squall
and pulse of wiper blades,
the smear of chitin
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