I could not. Forget the heads of chrysanthemum shedding their wild hair. It was an affair. He had a wife. The word like knife. Singing. Seeing the body, she was Amazed at the sight of three small holes ringing his heart. Later, his mistress wrote She remembers. She misremembers. She disremembers. Like everyone. I don’t know why he loved. Needed both. Rather I project the same impulse billowing the highway. The pulsed rain running from asphalt: I got to get out. I got to get out of here.

In the end a letter—a word—exposed the corners of their triangle. Three nails stretching one buckskin. It’s no sin. To be deceived, deceiving. It’s a snake curled in a tire. The tail circling. Uncircling. Discircling.

Driving a stolen truck up a hill, he is not the truck. The wife, lover is not the truck. What the truck is, no one knows. It feels ancestral. Humid. The open window cuts a song from the wind. It is the song where he gets everything he wants. A moon sunk in sugar. A melting. Body of sweat and perfume. A feeling. One cliff to drive off. Again and again the front porch. The orange peel of his heart wedged in his short fingernail. Right there. Against the tender throbbed flesh. The heart, a seeped fruit on the pine plank. And open. If someone saw him here like this, he’d die.