thuds

this is the line
next to which we breathe
words detach
are shed of us
we them
falling on this or the other
side of the line
next to which we breathe
some wafting, no
drifting like the roses
shredded in the heavy rain
that passed last night
when the others slept
red like blood but fragrantly
staining the pavers
lining the space
next to which we breathe
and who the hell does that
kind of thing?
others like our severed limbs
or selves
red like the rose petals
painted with the sun or more
like a magic marker and the smell
bleeding onto the slaughter house
floor
where they fall
the cuts to discard, no one wants
making slick their metallic taste
like nails
lining the surfaces
through which we breathe
uncommunicative
without a reason