Image of the Engine (audio only)
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Cell by cell the baby made herself, the cells
Made cells. That is to say
The baby is made largely of milk. Lying in her father’s arms, the little seed eyes
Moving, trying to see, smiling for us
To see, she will make a household
To her need of these rooms—Sara, little seed,
Little violent, diligent seed. Come let us look at the world
Me! he says, hand on his chest. Actually, his shirt. And there, perhaps, The question. Pioneers! But trailer people? Wood box full of tools— The most American. A sort of Shrinking in themselves. A Less than adult: old. A pocket knife, A tool— And I Here talking to the man? The sky That dawned along the road And all I've been Is not myself? I think myself Is what I've seen and not myself A man marooned No longer looks for ships, imagines Anything on the horizon.
unable to begin At the beginning, the fortunate Find everything already here. They are shoppers, Choosers, judges; . . . And here the brutal is without issue, a dead end. They develop Argument in order to speak, they become unreal, unreal, life loses solidity, loses extent, baseball's their game because baseball is not a game but an argument and difference of opinion makes the horse races. They are ghosts that endanger One's soul.