Requiem for a Cog

Every gear must turn in line, each cog

coruscates with dull, pewter shine.

No room for watercolor memories or

the promise of spring. No place for

wandering highways or the birth of

a king. A hammer lies in wait behind

each perfect pillar, poised to strike at

the echo of La Vie Bohème and the

naked bather in the river. No room

for nature’s inefficient asymmetry,

no place for dreams beyond industry.

Once upon a time a cog fancied itself

a shooting star, trading its pewter shine

for a bustling bazaar. It climbed too far

from the others beneath, and the Great

Machine picked its bones from its teeth.