We do not believe in the machine
but we wash it. Solvent
inside the rag. Some steady
comes patrolling, we scrub extra
vigorous. Our two eyes patched
with eye patches. Come Friday,
we can remove. Every Friday.
Wish then the washing kept us
patched all seven days. All
seven is what we say. None
have children, none have pets.
Some, once we had siblings.
The Singular Rule fixed that
mess. The machine makes
other particles, they move swift
over snow. Alabaster, we heard,
the color of the contact.
That and not the particles
why for the patches. To stuff
color below. The color that comes
in parcels. This we know.
To rend us vegetal, metal
state. Stay us, the motions
we can collect, consoled
muscles sucked of air. No need
to see color if color
moves through us, gas
to saturate muscle—yes—
and then the motions un-
veg, unmetal the forms
we carry and offer to that
for destroy, a suffered seven
days instead of five, the common.
Climbing while washing it,
collection. A holding of time.
Not for the machine. Motion.