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.