Engines/Insectarium

Dry laughter of night trains
beneath scoliotic spines of galaxies,
and moonlight rib bone stark around the boiler,
nips the ghosts of idle machines. The chains
holding cold engines have no weakness.
In neat cryogenic sleep dreaming of breath
their tidiness evokes emptiness;
emptiness imitates death.

Smokestacks that whispered into clouds
now slim cathedrals in dedication
to nocturnes of silk organs
periscopic in the system. Small crowds
of spiders boil from the lips.
in webs, wing dunes rise
resembling pumpkin pips;
the last rot of mulched flies.

Piston jellied stuck.
Ants march the shaft in a double-helix.
Moths choke the whistle cavity;
animate shadows of the nook.
In dust-light of oblivion
oily spectrums flash
from pulsing obsidian
of beetle backs.

Slime filigree fractures
suedes of decay,
drawing out continents
in the dust shale; pictures
etched by godly mollusk.
A new planet born
in backscatter musk.
A second first dawn.

Amputated carriages,
twitching still and world scattered,
hollow the core. A murderous
un-pegging of cargo marriages.
But empty bodies must be filled.
Each split chrysalis
and ghostless thing billed
a thriving new metropolis.

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