Machines at work

In the dark, though poor Alva races
in my ceiling, in the chosen dark,
I only feel a body next to mine,
this thing I inhabit or am
that is limbless without your limbs
and cold without your blood.
Strange life! To be ignorant of life,
as if shed of it, when departure
speaks its ugly voice—the voice
of a tyrant and his timetable;
and his damnable distance—
and says we must loiter elsewhere
for a while so we may enjoin later on.
The body next to mine, this time,
is far away and near, like memories
coiled in the brain’s machine always
working, and always dread of laze.
Give it a cooling and see its misery
explain away your body I keep in my head,
in the dark, so that I may see it certainly,
though the boy it belongs to is not in my bed.

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~ by Jeremy on December 23, 2012.

One Response to “Machines at work”

  1. One wonders just what that machine is detecting.

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