the machine whirs
sputtering, incandescent
its pulleys and levers,
its diodes and dials,
its meters and gauges
read, work, and move
with an uncanny precision
occasionally a shudder
or terrible groan
might throw its rhythm
and soon thereafter
a foghorn will sound—
indication of the
machine's arrest
so in its stuttering bliss
its abstruse nature
might be met with
the smack of a palm
or the taste of steel-toe
only to cough up
smoke once more
still, the machine
with its chronometers
and its manuals,
with its whistles
and its circuits,
with its reservoirs,
and its ducts
will go on whirring
as it always has