B.T. Shaw Most Accidents Occur at Home You threw water on grease fires. Tripped on the lip of the tub. At night, alone, you think you smell smoke in your hair. Hear a voice raised like a fist— Like so, you say to yourself. Like this. Forgive yourself, sifting ashes for facts: twisted buckles, heat-sobered knives, anniversary photo in which you are caught forever off-guard, ready to strike a match. Winging It This morning, I woke ninety miles from you as the crow flies. This cabin sits a stone's throw from a creek, which, from bank to bank, could not be more than thirty salmon wide. The water's slow but cold, and I can't reach the other side. I tried. I'm ninety miles from you as the crow flies. Which may be more like forty-five as jackdaws wing. A steady rain has veiled the distant shore since noon, and I can't keep the woodstove lit. (If I say 'blue', do you see 'lips'?) What's more, I slipped and soaked my boots—I'm stuck inside. Just sixty miles from you as magpies slide. But more like thirty-one as the wind blows— and what in horsefly miles I'll never know. I'm oceans from you as the mermaids sing. Mere micrometers as the mountains grow. Rain falls in sheets—the distance seems too much. Yet you're just half a mile away as woodchucks chuck. If the clouds should clear, the Milky Way will stun the sky tonight, and light will fall from stars long fallen in their fields. We come so near, so far, grounded as we are— ninety miles apart as the crow flies, a hundred million miles from the sun. about B.T. Shaw