Of Ford and Entropy
I was told of speaking to automobiles
as a child, knowing their rusty minds,
their creaking bolts like mechanical
fingers walking over aluminum Braille.
She said that the cars were more alive and
real than the murky god who spring died
whose silent voice did not speak to her;
animist leanings at such an immature age.
She found language in the textual entropic
rust as Fordian hieroglyphs, played about
their damp interiors, pondered the nature
of their ruined steel skeletons.
Years later in a moment of electrical distress
like a single photon in two places at once,
the prelude of inadequate language, she mailed
about patterns, rust, entropy.
Her history has been an industrial creation:
moving from vehicle to vehicle,
the inertia of flattened motion
she knows the oxidation
slows the paralyzed motorization
of these brooding junk yard animatrons.
In their corroded minds lies yet a text