A Worn-out Machine
Oil leaks, rusty sides; yet
it drives on
through each effort. The quiet
wheezing is a shared
customary ache: there’s no reason
for disturbance. It overcomes
difficulties with its routine,
and above all, experiences. It’s learned
that a machine doesn’t complain
and gives no cause for complaint.
It’s harder to come to terms with new
products; that’s when deciding what to do
gets serious. More oil drips
out, and what’s more, now
there’s an unaccustomed noise.
The machine knows it’s good,
and it knows
it can’t help itself.
Dublin in Bloomtime
These wild faces
above the still river surface.
Then the pack of dogs disappears
with the stolen hat.
Green bottles sway seaward.
At night, time comes along like photos
yellowing with Bloom.
The Window at the End of the Corridor
The sky, the landscape, the river:
the image at the end of the corridor.
Left and right in the apartment;
The fire extinguisher. The hum of the elevator.
The time after the offices close. Averted faces,
no word and no tenderness.
Someone will begin it,
and going by his door
and going farther, past the image,
out of the room, in flight.