4AM, Paramedics

Suzanne Roberts




The red smell of diesel,
the red-yellow-white glow
pulls you from the riptide
of sleep. From the place
where injured dogs are left
on the driveway of a dreamscape.
One dies, the others, neglected.
What has your life left behind?

You stand at the window, watching
them carry out the neighbor again.
The fog of breath of the glass, yours.
The octopus of wires hungry for a face, hers.
Lodgepole pines, black needled,
a dark spray against another kind
of darkness. You can always die
more than once.