for Bill Currey, after Joyce Kilmer

I think that I shall never see
a poem lovely as a machine.

A machine whose mouth is closed for good
and holds no metaphor under its hood.

A machine whose words number the stars
infinite yet for talk has no reason for.

Can’t remember when it was young
was never drunk won’t grow old.

A machine with no laughs or cries
but all night long creaks and moans.

Out of oil the machine starts to rust
like pages of a book turned to dust.