The screaming of an animal in pain is like the chiming of a clock.
This little machine has stalled.
wound tight for the final time
with the aid
of a needle, a vial.
It's knee deep in pellets.
The syringe to its oilcan is dry.
Sometimes death appears like a buzzard.
Or a worm.
But this death is rust.
This little calico machine has stalled.
I tilt my ear to the silky panel over its gears
to check if they still tick.
Or if I now can lay it to rest.
from the Polish
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