You can, from the safety of home,
type the address online and travel virtually
that American road: Canfield Drive.
See the sun-shocked trees lining the street
his body hit, his bulleted body
released of light. See the bleached
Midwestern sky stretched wide above the trees,
leaf-heavy. You can guess by their green
it's summer, guess again it's spring,
tell yourself one can fall during any season
in this country. You can. Depending on
where your flesh lands on the color wheel,
where your parents breathed
when they braided your breathing.
Alive, then not on Canfield Drive.
Then the hours left there.
I mouse-clicked for minutes, I scrolled
around the past, wondering exactly
why the police stood and stood
inside their yellow tape, their decision
not to cover his body. They did
eventually, one white sheet draped
across the length of him, then another
they wrapped around themselves: skin.