my mechinations

i was thinking of words
as a machine --a thought engine

what function?
what form?

tall leather...
the phrases whir
and the pity springs
with a twist of hope.

words whip, then wind
a smile
the edge of Wilmington
receding from me
there are no questions
except

what for?

not how.

i see the language
looping around

the heart beats
the shallow breath
and

you, the tall
tall
tall black shiny
buckled boots

my mind slides
wet tongue
slow groove

the words the machine cranks out
in a neat parade
every one to find bliss.