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