PSALM


When the muscular contractions or the steel
ushers us out into the harsh light of the world,
we are naked; All the rest is a kind of drag.

For the system is made of numbers and metal
wheels that grind together and fine, even as they count
every grain of sand, every atom in the universe,

and the soft, pulpy bodies of human beings are its crumple zones
keeping the wheels safe, lubricated, moving,
ever moving, when something goes wrong with its

angel-choir hive-drone of technocratic reason.
The bone forgives the break in time; the birdcage
the enigmatic emptiness at its centre.

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