The Angeles Crest Highway’s mountain curves
swing beauty close to canyons with death as chaser.
Some are caught, crosses mark the crossing over.
One mountain boulder marked our neighbor’s son:
his motorcycle swerving through blind curve,
his helmet helpless against granite will.
His mother crossed our street to share the news,
Eugene O’Neill’s moon mother heroine,
sun-leathered skin, sun-streaked eyes marked with loss.