MACHINES

Assembled moving parts work a certain way,

Carve into time like notched wheels of old watches,

Insert themselves in a room or a landscape

As naturally as overgrown weeds in a garden

Untended at the end of a season and

Left to winter’s slow erasure.

Hollow vibrations drown out nature’s warning calls,

Create a language of background noise

Overhead in a field of clover,

Fading along the railroad tracks or a country road,

Above the wind’s howl the engines drone and

Pale blue lights sweep every space, indoor and out--

Surround sound and backlit screens multiply,

Seep into every corner and every hand and eye--

A flood of energy moves and heats the air,

Stores sound and light,

Replaces mind, hands and feet,

Becomes as obsolete as wasted muscle and bone

Fails, in the dark of night,

Machines echo off walls and faces stare

Before the sudden sharp plastic metal twist

And there is nothing but silence in the air.

© cmheuer, 2013