THE HAUNTED RUIN

Even your computer is a haunted ruin, as your

Blood leaves something of itself, warming

The tool in your hand.

From far off, down the billion corridors

Of the semiconductor, military

Pipes grieve at the junctures.

This too smells of the body, its hot

Polymers smell of breast milk

And worry-sweat.

Hum of so many cycles in voltage,

Carbon-fed. Sing, wires. Feel, hand. Eyes,

Watch and form

Legs and bellies of characters:

Beak and eye of A. Serpentine hiss

S of the foregoers, claw-tines

Of E and of the claw hammer

You bought yesterday, its head

Tasting of light oil, the juice

Of dead striving—the haft

Of ash, for all its urethane varnish,

Polished by body salts.

Pull, clawhead. Hold, shaft. Steel face,

Strike and relieve me. Maker’s

Voice audible in the baritone

Whine of the handsaw working.

Last harbor of long-dead names of

Adana or Vilna. Machine-soul.