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.
The Coming of the Toads 