Arms that move out in the dark
Platelets of skin tessellating, coiling
Around warm iron bodies, looping the ribs
Generating electric-blue punches of the heart
Your affairs are not of its concern yet they are
With your hourly coffee and cigarette,
Daily jog, weekly fuck on the kitchen
Tablet or film or book or book on the film
About the fuck on the kitchen tablet,
It hammers on like an unanswered phone
Bleeping red and trying to find the right number
To crack the birthday code, attracting positive
Things, repelling the negative ones, the compass
Doesn't always get it right, North is always moving,
Impulse is rash and erratic. Sometimes the system stops
All together. Two metal fists, the size of a heart, weighing
In the same, box it back to life, or the inanimate thing
Just gets boxed and as the Norse have it, you might
Ride in the magnetic storm with the green winged
Women of the field and the other electric matter.
