Harman and Descartes

The clover machination  
quivers    
like a pulsar the crinkled leaf.    
Wisp, wisp — dulled repulsive rotation,    
to an evening; all things set.    
    
Winter burrows in the skin.    
Hail stones roll about the follicles.    
Where the hot core of moving blood    
quells,    
that CPU clocks at a high heart    
'till removed.    
The metal's so damn cold.    
     
—Discovering once one's eye in a vat    
when seal spins off the surface thought
and ethos illegible swashes around the dazed isle    
from distilled chamber until form immaculate of soul    
and pure,    
right,  
to itself    
alone.