The Impossible Machine
Onlook: Blue, Beleaguered, or Berieved
Love disguised as war may find a pen
Love at war may banish sin
And fanes reveal a terrible dove
Or forests grow to wreathe the lonely

Strange songs still dance between
Angel, monster, paramount, or grave
As though the poet’s letters tolled
That temple’s garden’s babies breathe

Yet mine--that stopwatch or gyrium
Does not hold the same mystery
Nor incant its storms in flame
While shadows weave, light catches on
Ornaments of garden
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by Nathan Coppedge