today someone will exert their grief, exiting their car in the middle
of the street to crack the steady bridge of a stranger’s nose.

consider the clenched fist as a demonstration of energy transfer:
hammering a nail into the wall only for the unsightly hole it creates.

nothing can be created or destroyed, only shifted to a new state—a
streetlight turning red, a car crumpling like paper, a mother dying, then ash.

she didn’t want a funeral—said she couldn’t stand the thought of
people crying over her dead body. we cried anyway. raged at the thought that

our cars won’t last. our grief, a constant. our bodies, flickering like streetlights:
stagnant yellow with sickness. some crashing through the intersection—red.