The Concessions

I stray into older and
Older time that comes by order
Through year and another year.
The grips (the teeth) of the gears
Strip. The zinging it sounds like.
*Yes your ears and ears go
*Until you can only hear the punctuation,
*The look on faces.

As the gears go - they let you know they are
Going and slip out of the door one
At a time
Into the nightwoods ducking
Through brush until they reach the
Stream where trout do not see them
In their sleep -

The rest of it.
The whole damn mechanism.
It slows into a slow machine.
It is a turn of the century photograph of
Complicated belts and valves in a
Steam driven window-maker's dangerous shop.

I look outside. I can smell the sweet coal-burning
Smell of the engine. I feel the cap on my head.
It's sunlight and I'm wearing longsleaves.

What they do not tell say is that
It is peaceful. You may sit
With a blanket on your lap.
Rest your arms on the armrests.
There is only now time to enjoy
That it is warmer than you like.
And to sit without being hungry
Or without need.

The rest of everything is small.
It rests on the deck of a ship.
It is small. It looks small
As it tacks out towards the sea.

And behind - the crackle of a burning sound
That approaches here.
This place I am.
Stretching hands out behind you
Feeling flecks
Of the heat

Of the heat
On its approach.