Prophetic Dreams Obtain

All the way at the top of the hill,
the wrecked car is curled up
like a maimed cat
Leading to it in a trail, your blood is represented by
cardboard discs in deepening shades of gray
Was it meant to be?
The talking dog told me otherwise,
but gods in dog-guise tell lies,
of this there is proof
yet, the turtles who scrape and paddle
in every bucket of lake-water
are a mute warning with each lap against the rim
some are leaf-brown
and crowned with crenellations
and others have green shells, painted with
candy-apple dabbles
Apples and turtles and pomegranate and palm oil
are offerings to Changó
who also accepts the blood of birds.
But I am always fleeing:
when will I stop and fight?