A point of access. An axis, a tuning.
I am the machining.
I am too the red flower that smuggles its stem
through the road, a word for your wanting.
Ships weigh in on water-light,
on helices of radon, tie up and unload.
Ports are concentrated stores of memory,
phone cards, cranes. Container loads and gleaming
fingers. Fourteen Russian languages, petals
gleam atmospheric. Eavesdropping,
my heart machines a voice.