Sometimes the will is arrested at a choke point;

the traffic can’t be pushed through, in the mind’s view

the cars’ metal bodies crunch and the bones crack, snap,

to funnel into the narrow channel, the marrow oozing onto the flannels

of those who simply wanted to get to the other side, to cross the road,

from intention —coil up, span the void— to action —crushed to sup—

we are the eggs from which we make our omelettes.

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