|Jul/Aug 2012 Poetry|
Deus in Machina
Behind the building there was a web of machinery—some valves and pipes performing
an unknown function, daubed with festive yellow paint flaking ever since. A sudden
assault of wind threw me a bit off balance, while on one of the valves there was a tiny
metal tag that tapped against its base, a shrill tapping intermittent and excited. The pipes
began to hiss, as if to themselves, like a reptile lullaby in iron.
The wind began to erase itself. It was spring but the sun was autumnal.
I turned the corner, two deer fled before me and in their wake last year's leaves spoke
angrily to each other until they regained their shape.