old machines

When did the mind become
a paper ship
unfolded
failing heavily
among slick rocks?

We understood the way the wood was folded
through the brass.

The simpler machines.

The children playing games their bodies would interpret
in their parents' clothes
while sunlight
in blue windows
made them thirsty.

But now our Icarus is ancient
and he cracks
beneath a momentary moon;
beneath the hard weight of a rider
who inhabits his bruised courage
as he falls.

We fill our cups with orchids
while we talk about creation
and the cold miracle of
subtraction.

We sleep and bathe alone with winter and
old tea
while on the lawn
the blades of grass fail beautifully
together.