My machines are running on high,
Their meters and guages are at least in the pink
Some are in the red. Other's don't have gauges and I can only assume
With all the puffing and chugging
and the iron around their edges turning orange
that they are over the lines.

I am looking for the answer that is inside these machines.
One of these days the green one is going to pop like a balloon
and the steel grate will rattle on the blue one
and my favorite one
the Competing columns striking up for a higher ground than themselves
They are so precocious!
They will scream to us, their backs breaking
Blind and agonistic, their dark lines only holding back
The growing light.
At the center, condensation tears from the crackling tower
We have sent water, from the pumping station, to put out the
Fire that licks and stretches,
sealing and re-sealing the hard edges
into softer ones.

Let her speak! She falls into disrepair and stretches
across the floor toward me
There is something in there
An answer maybe, or another machine
But I am there and I

In the future, I will have all sorts of new words.

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