My long gray Cadillac sits,
not idling, not waiting to charge 

down the dusty roads to make 
some deal, some death, some grand 

entrance.  My friend is dead. He cools 
his heels in hell. We used to raise hell,

the dust we left behind enough
to make another earth. In my dreams,

dark and shining horses drag us
through the fields. I wake to the car’s 

radio. It croons, He said
I’ll love you ‘til I die.
 Dead fireflies

on the windshield aglow. His hand
turned the wheel. Now the Cadillac

sits brooding, silent as blood.
I die, consumed by fireflies,

not stars, while grander schemes
kill, fall, and fail to rust.

Early versions of “Achilles” appeared in The Laurel Review and Fire.