Much. You got tangled
in the lines. Like a marionette
you flopped without the taut
pull of the strings. You were not

without men standing
over you. Moving their hands, walking
you across a stage. Couldn’t see
their faces, only the strings. And strings

don’t smile. They tie you up,
into a pig pile. The curtain closes. And
the clean-up crew sweeps up the heap
that is now you. Stuffs you in boxes, like

ornaments on the tree. Stores you
in the attic in the heat and the cold. Voices
are muffled and darkness enfolds, inside
a cardboard coffin that now is home.