Her hair shining in afternoon light,
a lower register in a voice rich with innuendo; 

                                           anything's a catalyst 

            dropped into the hungry funnel
                                  of the eyes or ears (the machine
                                  abhors a vacuum). 

                                             It winds
                                  on narrow rails downwards,
                                             dropping finally 

                                                      into a still green pool
                                                              that begins to bubble and fizz.

                       The hiss of carbonation wakes
                                  the dog
                                             (much-loved yellow dog that
                       died years back, lay down
                       in the shade of the maple and never got up)
                                  that still resides--

                                  some days playful, romp-ready, others
                                             swollen and buzzed by flies--

                       beside the small propeller which begins

                                             to turn in the breeze of the dog's wag
                                                        (pleased to be noticed again
                       after many months of slumber in the dark). 

Before the rush of wind
                       a small blue flame leaps up; continues leaping,
                       each time higher,
                                  burning the string that has secured
                                  a creaking pulley bearing buckets full of 

                                              smell of mother's shampoo     

                                                 shreds of skinned knee      

                                                     father's voice at the door      

                                                        hairy thing under the bed        

                                                                        summer's best tomato

                       which each in turn
                                                 descend to strike a ledge
                       that overturns the buckets one by one
                                                                   into a chute that drains
                                                                              into a vat where
                                  they combine and ball into a glob

                                       that shines as bright as mercury 

                                           then gels heavy as lead
                                                     mottled with pale tissue of a burn

                                                 and drops through the final tube to land
                                                 on a conveyor belt that bears it to his hand. 

                       Here, this is for you,
                                  with your shining hair.
                        Speak; set
                                  this absurd machine to work; 

                                  make its gears notch,
                                  make its slight flame flare.