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.
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