CHRISTIAN NAGLE
They are engines at feast,
chuffing over explosive
earthworks which a mole
made before dawn.
Bean-sized hearts rattle
their blood’s percussion
from hollows in the breast,
so fast, moments fill
before they pass. One
could almost believe
that, their station tentative
as the stillness of a pond
before a pebble
drops, they have imagined
themselves alive.
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