mechanical gymnasium
No one could have foreseen
the death that carried
us. The breath
that rose our chests and
collapsed
in the formaldehyde
gloom.
There were, after all, rooms
full of bodies in jars.
Eyes
gone white. Bright light
on the grounds that
ate our shadows and
dried
out our skin. The tiny
wooden
sticks that assemble
themselves
into platforms and jungle
gyms.
Who knew the world so
sodden
with grief, and so
beautiful?
Each tiny hinge perfected,
each blade
of grass and painted
tree exquisite.
Even the tiny cottage we
could not enter.
If you listened carefully,
we were laughing still
as the glass fogged over.
Gears in our bodies crudded
with dust, with rusted
cogs.
And, one by one, we
stopped
moving, stiffening in all
that sun.
