The Crash

you would capture the whole scene shuffling backward in that way across time impossibly the head swiveling the ankles clicking you would see it: the beginning and end from your perch above the power lines the crash watching the story arc play and when the first sound fades out and the colors all blend the end of the line is straight until the last word’s written like that’s how life works like it all just stops there but it isn’t and doesn’t and we don’t either because everything before was and is too at the same time life and death stacked like ribs to hold the lungs and heart inside a body that rejects them so why try? and still you float seek the streets of home and here to find the tragedy to tell its story and still you follow close enough to see the shattered glass catch light and shine back until some meaning appears or gets shaken from your hair into the shower drain that morning you dressed and left the driveway on shorn lug nuts but why write the ending at all? why not just the middle? why not loop the whole thing always on the wall and just watch backwards and forwards at the same time superimposed why death only and not endless directionless life from birth unto it that blurs in tears at both ends but cancels out because it all does one life and death echoing down the pipe before and after through time and us too traffic merging on the road before the pavements been laid