cut up, in class writing

    

that small but most finished piece of mechanism

turns the hay to rust.

whether the rooster knows of his own futility

is unknown in the calls and sparks of the morning.

once a graceful instrument,

the decrepit heaving loom now only weaves

to the will of its master.

in harvest or harmony, hell or here else

all falls to the rage of man.

 

but raw skin pushed always sits the same way.

according to all the laws of taste

what we have digested is becoming repetitive.

according to all the laws of taste

it is hollow to sit in the sills of windows.

according to all the laws of taste

desire and lullabies have forgotten each other.

according to all the laws of taste

when the black steam engine rolls in

we’ll hear the red rolling feet striking all the places they forgot to rock.

dangers of the hand.

                      

Submitted by emily on Mon, 10/29/2007 - 2:26pm. emily's blog | login or register to post comments | printer friendly version