Machinery

beehive hum of the machinery will
echo again down the long halls,
the shuttles spinning, this time the threads
woven into a new tapestry to tell all
our days, our hours, the long nights
before the dawn is done and day
crowns straight upon the veiny
sidewalk, asphalt blue, sparkle
glass accidental jewels pressed there
so incidentally and now only noticed
by the keenest eye

the colors go from red to blue-est
black, the inky color of oil blearing
across newsprint

and somewhere is archy still
tapping out stories for mehitabel
while the Yellow Kid tweets
"Hully Gee" and updates his
Facebook status?

stories, like human nature, do not
change: they merely pass from
speaker to speaker, dipping our
pens in the common ink, the
blue-black read all over
used for wrapping paper, kindling,
insulation for our boots, for
the long march--and words
will keep us warm--if we repeat them
fast enough
if we believe them, clear enough, if
we sleep, love, laugh, eat with
word-work, the best and brightest work,
the truest work, in the end