The least harmful fold of the paper
which promises a new reading
even under a near blind or droll eye
might eventually release news in print
in which you figure in it, its grand star,
the solid man with a cigar, near a car,
which when you opened its door
and sat in it, splaying hips and legs
across a bountiful leatherlike spread,
not noticing the blood on the floor,
you said I admire the steering wheel,
its easy turn back and forth, its red tint.
