made up of stuff

in this carton
     all the same everythings
always     right      side           up

even the dead things. are left
standing
                laughing     crying

stuff & worried about. their
internal processes

especially their bowels. they were
in focus
              like the growing face of mold
rotted and dotting the exterior limits

similarly afflicted with life. heavily
magnified by
                        our continued
and numerous     failures

chewed upon by the already
gnarled cardboard of their

existence. at all corners the sun fell
like sunday morning drunks. pretending

the terror of monday's work. the terror
of the battle shaking the last infinitesimal
chill from the air
                            from out this carton. the cool
glass breaks. the long unintelligible

road.

Accident

(they) were playing
(they were) not for what will
   be
(they were shattered)
they were red blood
they were before the (stop)
(they were) could not be were they
   to slow down
(they) were broken into living
   pieces
they were (not to) make it out
   alive
(they) were to be spun from the
   wheel
they were to be (removed)
   forever
they were to be not even
   (remembered)
the were to be not even
   (mourned)
they crossed back as ever
   into grinding machine
(they were torn apart)
   by flattening engines
they were never to (be)
   again
(they were a mere moment
   from death's crushing weight)
they were never to grasp
   that (feeling)
they were made meaningless
   by time's threads