It’s not a machine,
this great grass ball of warrens

rolling through the nation’s head.

People are machines, yes
companies, yes, departments, yes –

silvery-skinned and sleek
and flawless, virgin from the Vac Pac

then dusty with rust,

jammed and leaking battery acid,
shrinking to a stain on a bed –

but the grass ball of warrens is rolling
and unlikely, vulnerable

to this tilting terrain,

the game of maze and balance
we hold in history’s hands.

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