Twittering machine/ Paul Klee
We are birds in the aviary of a derelict desire,
powering a little rondelay of machinations that devour.
Little tripods prop us up
where the sky is moot, and love has forgotten
what it was born to do.
Discern this haze then. Inhale its absence.
We are tethered to our devices and cannot escape.
And our pain is a texture in which death's brigades
chatter in twilight against a thrum of engines.
