Theres a fate here that’s fit for explaining everything but me

When the words fit it’s the machine that clutches and pushes

It’s the pen

I cling to the movement of the engine

The pace of its step

The rhythm of this pacemaker

Out of synch with my blood

I push on whats outside

It pushes straight back

As if we are disappointed with one another

And I cling to our baby

This illness

That makes each of resist until taught

We both ache with the lax and pull of anger's tack

Yielding despair in automata.