her remarkable
heart bursts,
leaving dead meat in her
central cavern.

inside his head
the brain is blooming
a garden of extras;
he can’t think past it so he stops.

a plane comes lawnmower hard
down on the house and 
cuts the family up;
no more tears or strained dinners.

matchstick children,
slim fathers and mothers,
corpses as thick
as hunger satisfied then satisfied again.

the carnage
of routine reductions in force
continues as we more and more casually
grieve. who cares but the dead,

really, that they have become dead?  we mourn
a little for the closest disappearances
then let grief slide until the next time.
the dead complain to god for far longer.

god turns away
and forces the next birth, the next death,
the next indifference to term.  
we like it that way.  we enjoy novelty.