Something pink and fluffy
in the middle of the road;
we can't always identify
what we run over at high speeds.
As you pity inanimate-ness,
tragedies left by the wayside
these things ultimately build
a refuse-type of paradise.
In the machine, our handmade lacquered
dreams possess us, our fast metal shrines
grinding over discarded, exposed soft,
pink fuzziness in the narrow midline.
