Pray for her now, the cleaner
arriving at dawn, unlocking,
humming idly as she dusts
till a wandering camera fastens
her face in a twist of horror.
Pray for the student rowers,
so young, so beautifully muscled,
whose oars will snag in the reeds
on a grisliness wrapped in plastic
as the soundtrack darkens its key,
or the burly, hard-hatted drivers
of gargantuan toothy machines
doomed to chew into landfills,
gulping mawfulls of garbage
to produce the critical freeze-frame:
an arm that drips from the bucket.
The lovers haunting the woods,
the children stalking their ball:
Innocent, stammering, damaged,
and dismissed by the brusque detective,
they blur. They have served their purpose.
Pray now. You will forget them
ten minutes into the action,
before the ignorable credits
in which they have no names.
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