machines of such precision

I stood between                
the towering shelves
of third-world labour        
in the local Dollarama.

 the shelves grew towards the ceiling

saturated, angels dripping melting macabre faces down on decorative demons, the shaping of worlds in twisted lethargy  

anxiety grew,
fellow shoppers became hogs grunting in the muck, rolling in the excrement of exploitation.

then they were machines
filling their baskets
in mechanistic harmony

rote shopping etiquette.

the shelves seemed alive.