Metal scrapes across metal as a the fire
colored sky is all but lost in the procession
of the night. The tired backs stretch out with
all the quiet time around them,
and the different frames before them
are the digital equivalent of a reflection.
There we can make things permanent
and skip over the parts we hope to cut
out of our own days in a million ways
before we get too old to realize where we are.
Though, I think automated radar guns are cheating
in this eternal game between those who speed
and those who try to slow them down.
I had a friend who said his mother drowned
because she couldn’t get her seatbelt off,
but she had also made the choice to sink the car.
I bet the people on crashing planes
don’t realize that they are on their way
to becoming buried treasure.
Hazmat suits and metal detectors will find
that bit of finger bone embedded in a burnt
cushion that was under ground displaced
by all the weight.
What if all the trees can talk about
is how badly they would hurt us if they could?

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