An Excitement of Windows

Dean Young
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It’s fun to break stuff.
I broke a Plymouth once
although that was not as satisfying
as breaking a refrigerator shelf
which set off a cataclysm
then a profound stillness
whereas the car produced a raspy
whirl then a leaky quiet.
The stillness after something breaks,
after it falls to fortress pieces,
spills its metropolitan innards,
knocks over other things which may then
get in the breaking mood, perhaps
burning an acre or two, may be
the empirical correspondent
to the realization and acceptance
of death. Just once,
I’d like to take a hammer to a diamond
and see. Ka-ching, wine glass hits
the stone, advantageously,
in regards to metaphor formation,
full of red wine.
Plink, the little thingie snaps off,
incapacitating the nuclear power plant.
Friendship broken like a paperclip
bent back and forth: expectation, dis-
appointment, expectation, disappointment.
An attractive aspect of human composting
is after the body’s frozen in liquid nitrogen,
it’s shattered with a suprasonic beam
into pieces small enough for a worms to break
and a tree on top each year repeats
mythologically your death
by losing its leaves,
a kind of breakdown for the tree.
There must be a point where a broken thing
can be broken no more.
Probably, we need protection from each other.
In the distance, a cloud of dust.

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