Machines

Every machine I face
I must understand.

Shine, flicker, oiling, click, display, hum,
fitting, beep.

I must know the inception,
to design,
production,
and extrapolated purposes.

Every piece I pull off
and learn,
I fill with the blood
of function,
and then put it back into place.

The perfect machine
doesn’t require my action.

Fitting, selection, pounding, switching,
specifying, moving.

The perfect machine is invisible.

Like the air.
Like immunity.
Like the places in the brain.
Like the circling paths we fly on.

Only the beauty of imperfection
remains.

Coughs,crooked steps,
chapped hands, trembling.
Copyright Kay Winter

Advertisements
Tagged , , , , , ,

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: