For the time being
call me Home.

All the ingénues do.

Units are the engines
I understand best.

One betrayal, two.
Merrily, merrily, merrily.

Define hope.	 Machine.
Define machine.  Nope.

Like thoughts,
the geniuses race through.

If you're lucky

after a number of
revolutions, you'll

feel something catch.

From Sad Little Breathing Machine by Matthea Harvey. Copyright © 2004 by Matthea Harvey. Reprinted with the permission of Graywolf Press, Saint Paul, Minnesota. All rights reserved.