The Machines In Our Ghosts

A cough
then retch and hack
chain axe ache
                    catched

wind up
teleplasm small clockwork
rings jangle squeak
                          creak

a ghost asks itself
"am I old?" the tick of the cogs
brings cyanide
                         to float

"where's my body?"
"what does it look like now?"
"clenched, blue,
                     in deep sea"

reflections in mirrors past
an empty eye squints minor sides
black radiant joy body and
                body pass parallel silver

the olden wooden floor is wet
its top tip bounce like swamped plush pile
foot dipped into slats pikes into the found
                           ations fusebox after the basement