I hum and beep at my master, but he does not listen. He pounds on my keys furiously, typing out insubstantial things, embedding himself in the abstract.

I creak and moan. I shout to him, “Go outside! Go play! It’s too nice to sit here all day!”

He doesn’t hear, just continues …

fresh smoke
    squirms through
    our sacred window,
    pierces yesterday's angel

those words, salt
    your voice, awake
    my flesh, dried
    a raw monopoly of god

squirming through
    the marbled world

when you remember words
    remember the copper tang,
    the smoky perfume,
    the sad, warm woman

your work must be
    porcelain steel rythms