post-industrial poem

what i do over and over
from breath or fetish
at that very moment
no longer my habitat
must be that
other dimension i've
fallen through
these are not hands
they're orbits
tongue a machine
brain, wrecking ball
working on
worked by someone
suddenly there's no language
each thought hangs in air
slides through smoldering remnants
one cries i missed my train
steam release pollinates
then one is not one
night-blooming jasmine, ah
planted by the city
ah, i'm off again...
she has nothing at all
to do with this,
but she's here,
at the drill press being careful
the place closes at five that's
a mere technicality
love over gold
as they say in the trade