cycles

the lull
of heavy machinery
occupies the distance.

over here,
in a maze of beer
we follow a piece
of greased up genatelia
attached to a string,
protruding
from our heads.

the angles
never lead
to any cents.

and every once in a while
when there is nothing left
but the drone
of our own image,

the sound
of that heavy machinery
gets
a little bit louder.