good road kill friday

lord

forty-two days thou hast clung,
thin-skinned on a barren pallet
framed in winter's haste

(skinks beneath frozen earth
the moisture seek that, once fecund,
did reek with festive couplings)

and still no saline washed thy wound
or stole off parchment the flutter gone
from tan to tanned to tanning.

a cracked grin in the asphalt maw
rises again when the pebble rolled.

forever the stations crossing.

amen