fourteen dead in a turned over bus,
and the rain doesn't stop for anyone.
we said things like: everything happens for a reason.
when we heard about it, we called it an accident.

we said things and they echoed off of their own hollowness
and the hollowness of fourteen bodies folded in metal and bad timing.
the mud turned red and shone with dirty water and broken glass.
a man from the newspaper took grisly pictures.

hungry for real things,
we slaver like we remember animals slavering and
chomp at the bit of mortality, roll it over our tongues.
jaws sore with desire, we buy plane tickets and get there faster.

one spinning wheel made of boiled horse hooves
makes it own orbit next to the crumpled frame.
she went doing what she loved, you said.
and i stared at the vein in your neck, that moved when you spoke.