In ’40s shipyards
the illuminati of iron
and electricity.
This morning,
shucked off, its yellow tarp,
the kick-over
of the Wisconsin
motor, inhalation
and conversion
of all nature.
Mounted on a trailer,
gun-carriage
below the wattles,
a machine of making.
Rampant, heady
power: to light up
hopes or dash
the flight
of frightened birds—
ring-necked parrots
fast as sparks
or spits of metal.
Eye-burner. Melter
of layers. Massive
disruption
and amalgamation
of cells. When
halves of metal
join, so fallen angels
exalt creation:
let fall the hot,
the oxymorons, deny
the bosses:
their tall orders
are not for us:
our docks
our mills
our heavy industry
pleasuring
the planets.