One hundred and twenty-seven

There is a memory of the man asleep
And also, I am asleep
The sound of machinery wakes me
Broad and square
A large device
Rolling on the strangest of feet
It stops
An opening
Alight

I think I see the Beast
Hunched over in a seat
Filling the space of two
Hunched over
I would say sleep
But he does not move
Then when I blink there is the man
Then nothing
Then the man
The man looks at me and does not sleep

The sound of labouring machinery
Then relief
The hum of the feet as the machine glides
Lurch
Pushing against the weight of the world
In the room there are always two distinct figures
Today is a day where one ignores
The other moves about
When I wake I will be there
Watching the figure following the man
When I wake I will watch from afar
As Lons alights on the rooftops of the city
I will stop at the hole in the wall
The hole in the room of squares
Examine the bend of each interrupted form
I will see my blood on the floor
Darkening
Drying
And the artifice in the ownership

I come to borrow such things
When the tiny machines create time to be measured, I borrow
Sitting there in the space with the sounds of movement in the periphery
They who borrow from me
The words and the blood
Lily in the ears
Countless names and objects

I can steal my voice
A beauty of thievery
So that the rest can choose to be still for a moment
And we may have some peace