I hear the silver jingle of her industry,

It whirs as progress in the wheels of her mind.

Turning in circles– perfectly, ceaselessly,

Ticking methodically as the mainsprings unwind.


I hear her engines, their muscular humming,

And wonder in awe at the power of stealth.

For she alone knows and plans what is coming,

But that is a secret she keeps to herself.


         I am a passenger in this car to vaguery.

         I go nowhere, transported by her.

         She turns love into an act of slavery:

         I move to action– she does not stir.


         And though we pretend that we seem to be moving–

         Twirling and reeling in the safe fog of gray,

         Our arrival will surely never be proven.

         For we never depart. We merely drive, drive away.



Fall 1989

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