Everything Is Instruments

Bodies burn
still in empty trains,
the car is empty
and the seatbelt pulled out like a rotted tooth
from its hole. The water
sloshes up high
upon its wells, spills
over the edges,
meeting with time.
Without practice
it botches the surgery,
we were burnt
and we burned well from the inside out, our heads
upright, our hands still attentive in their positions
on the wheel,
and our eyes are lovely white buds
on the volcano, but
that is all and we’re still inventing,
we’re still here.