Under the last machine a light clicks on. Moving one space, moving another, making the sound of a thousand wind chimes in a dishwasher, steam rises off the bottles as they shift through the water, pulled along, moving one jet to the next. Gone the cigarette butts, the phlegm, spit, blood, the lipstick and the labels, the any signs of us, they join the next track completely identical. Everyone leaves the square of white light at the line’s end.
Those in the back struggle, but can’t fight the belt. They slide together, piled, mashed, their necks jutting together. A mound of glass builds to the top. When the pressure breaks, the pile bursts and falls from the track. Fifty bottles toward concrete. Sounds like breaking windows, green mosaic spreading over the floor in super slow-mo. The light goes off and the track stops. Rubber boots beat their way to the shards. No more wind for the chimes. The white square was there; it was close by.