deepundergroundpoetry.com
What We Truly Invent
He arranged the blueprint for his outing
on a fifty year table
and dusted off the seams in tenderness.
A fifty year plan, molded sharp
through concrete schematic,
precise pinpoints from a compass
to navigate the cylinders, perfect
lines drawn from once youthful hands
to veiny claws, yellowed fingers
finishing in arabesque light.
The articulate details grew
as his sight diminished, from
specs to cokebottle viewing
until his irises looked blotched
like runny egg whites
until the day mechanically comes,
one cog sewn through the next
as the blueprint world
emerges into ours.
He fits himself inside
his fifty year brainchild,
a suit of arabesque metal
and motors and cogs,
to push one glass button
and start the ignition--
the last electric breath
of seventeen thousand volts.
on a fifty year table
and dusted off the seams in tenderness.
A fifty year plan, molded sharp
through concrete schematic,
precise pinpoints from a compass
to navigate the cylinders, perfect
lines drawn from once youthful hands
to veiny claws, yellowed fingers
finishing in arabesque light.
The articulate details grew
as his sight diminished, from
specs to cokebottle viewing
until his irises looked blotched
like runny egg whites
until the day mechanically comes,
one cog sewn through the next
as the blueprint world
emerges into ours.
He fits himself inside
his fifty year brainchild,
a suit of arabesque metal
and motors and cogs,
to push one glass button
and start the ignition--
the last electric breath
of seventeen thousand volts.
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