you can see my moving parts
by lifting aside this curtain
here where flesh is fused with
my mechanical arts & all is
encased in polished enjambe-
ment … tiny wheels enforce
this rhythm trigger reaction
maintain flow – while clock-
works monitor internal pressure
& signal the hours like early
birds – i sing with steam this
pulse enervates a quiet meaning
(my labyrinthine hulk) & days
disappear under time’s resisting
ladder scheme the wailing echo
silver screws are my grammar &
whistles my code – an abstract
mechanic oils my pistons & my
cogs until at last perpetual
i shudder on my electric rails
the countryside forms lakes of
blue-green blurs while passing
poems cause a bang & under us
the track is glistening sweat
creates a traceable trail (an
endless journey to pass a line
over a bleak white space where
meaning terminates in cuckoo
recitals worthy of the brochure
or else rhymes from a motor age
