Caxtons are mechanical birds with many wings
And some are treasured for their markings–

They cause the eyes to melt
Or the body to shriek without pain

I have never seen one fly, but
Sometimes they perch on the hand

Mist is when the sky is tired of flight
And rests its soft machine on the ground:

Then the world is dim and bookish
Like engravings under tissue paper

Rain is when the earth is television
It has the properites of making colours darker

Model T is a room with the lock inside —
A key is turned to free the world
For movement, so quick there is a film
To watch for anything missed

But time is tied to the wrist
Or kept in a box, ticking with impatience

In homes, a haunted apparatus sleeps
That snores when you pick it up

If the ghost cries, they carry it
To their lips and soothe it to sleep

With sounds. And yet, they wake it up
Deliberately, by tickling with a finger

Only the young are allowed to suffer
Openly. Adults go to a punishment room

With water but nothing to eat
They lock the door and suffer the noises

Alone. No one is exempt
And everyone’s pain has a different smell

At night, when all the colours die
They hide in pairs
And read about themselves —
In colour, with their eyelids shut