The green, green world’s what killed the man,
Jamming hard, pressing on the pedal,
he felt the sweet sweet curve, the road
that pulls, extends, gravity’s pitch that sends
him into the main line, the interstate
south, home for the mundane, the seedy,
their passengers. Not him. He was passing through.
This summer, he planned perfect pictures,
pink and blue and glowing, with friends finally,
and after so much, another love, different and real,
mysterious but his. He was hers. She was.
Oh friend, ours is a green and deadly world,
a place we sadly pass if we don’t stop, at least don’t
slow down to touch asphalt, skin, paint, keys, grit.
And yet at a pause, green matter sucks us in, tears us
up, blinds us with leaves, walls, a shallow horizon.
So there he was, alone like the rest
of us, zipping like a planet through space, sure
as hell where he was going, mixing colors, lights,
oh so well, until, like an infinitesimal particle raised up
into the natural world, he smashed into the green
wall that sucked him under, back to the beginning.
Requiescat in pace, Murat.