Every machine I face
I must understand.
Shine, flicker, oiling, click, display, hum,
I must know the inception,
and extrapolated purposes.
Every piece I pull off
I fill with the blood
and then put it back into place.
The perfect machine
doesn’t require my action.
Fitting, selection, pounding, switching,
The perfect machine is invisible.
Like the air.
Like the places in the brain.
Like the circling paths we fly on.
Only the beauty of imperfection
chapped hands, trembling.
Copyright Kay Winter