But I’m Talking
Your hands like the smallest airplanes, exploding
all around your face, and outside the factory
stand the dark trees, their shivering limbs. I tell you this
not because I know the landscape, but because
I know how much this means to you. Labor’s
elegant machinery: bodies and their bones still
too strong to be bones—such weight
against the earth, wind as chilly as a thousand knives…
And the system’s in place. What a process when you tell me
my shirt’s on fire, this process
and this productivity. There’s the mouth you speak through.
Such strange warmth I should remove.