Spill

My ears are warm

with sound, a sibilance

swarms, surrounds

I tune into

the feel, the mood

the honeyed hum in 

wax and wood

I bend: my body strains with care, 

to lift the heavy whole

to heft 

so many

song-full frames

But as I come to place the box back on –

and lean and hover, waiting

for the crowds to clear – 

I feel my back begin to scream, 

my limbs to shake,

my strength, it cannot

stretch

quite far 

enough

Too fast, I set it down

and (horror) hear 

the small 

wet crunch

of someone crushed beneath

the sound

it curls into my open ear, becomes

a shudder, nesting,

crawls in deep

My eyes search, fearing

find the place 

where one has only 

half-escaped

where others rush, respond

to fluid spilled that screams

its scent: alarm!

too late, they touch her

where the box bisects

her body, pollen-fuzzed

and burst

(who holds a hope against

so great a weight?)

Apart, I grieve

the insufficiency of flesh

(let crunch replay):

with haunted ears 

eat grief, drink grief

in the one silence

cast my way