The Machinery of Desire

Everything is calling, clicking
an intricate clockwork of longing.
Crickets rub their toothy wings,
cars race hungrily along black ribbons,
airy arms tingle for breakfast,
pigeons ever gurgle on the wire,
dogs whine to be let in—pity them,
and me, I chase my stories round
my head looking for the end.

My words are never content with silence,
that great engine turning poems.
And why not? Silence has everything to say,
everywhere to go. Words are its wings
rubbing together, singing come here, love me,
leave me alone, no—stay, yes—go, listen, don’t
look too hard for me. I’m under the pile
of dirty jeans, I’m tucked in the crotch
of the mulberry tree, I’m up here
in the mouth of the great horned owl, waiting.


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