ALT Instead of milkweed, a monarch clings to the windshield I didn’t ask for any of this: Grey motion-pills in the glove compartment. Rain that hasn't arrived above the reservoir. World banks diminishing in rearview. An hour away, fists of waterlilies brushing the breast of a swan — a collision of tenderness. It happens. Our egos now decades apart. A new economy elsewhere. At the borders where his face was, flame trees & lemon-groves strung into lozenges of light rapeseed blazing along the highway with no limit — as if I’m in control. Vikki C.