Clapper, winch, all
greased machines,
Making their lusty
noises, rise,
Like a people, to a vote
of affirmation,
Of living, for all who
hear, re-echoed,
Collected, carried up
their narrow channels,
As the things they wish,
are wont to want.
This is their
metamorphosis,
Their fevered flows to
gears and gigs,
Fears, all phobias, to
dreams,
Careening into the
carnal, caresses
Turning all fluidity
To outrages of plugs and
pliers.
And beyond, the windows
gleam,
The night for now a
universe,
A plain for every
stuttered step,
Where shapes, absorbed
alternatives,
Transform from nothing
into something sought,
Quotidian exploded in
desire.
