You a hear the sound when its working
Which means I’m on to you. If everything
Were going well, you wouldn’t hear
That constant rasp of pants. The machine
Breaths to make noise, not for air. It wants
You to know its there and functioning.
Otherwise the leaves layered in autumn’s
Copulation wouldn’t give up to airy convection,
Sodomite leaves!
As I look at the scene, of brown leaves, gray
Sky, some motion of finger-y branches unclothed
To the cold, the photo of it in my mind
Fades to a backdrop on a pinball machine,
Scores amass to decay and fucking leaves
And that ball bearing is trying to break
The glass, to dot a bloody hole in my head.
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