For the time being call me Home. All the ingénues do. Units are the engines I understand best. One betrayal, two. Merrily, merrily, merrily. Define hope. Machine. Define machine.  Nope. Like thoughts, the geniuses race through. If you're lucky after a number of revolutions, you'll feel something catch.

From Sad Little Breathing Machine by Matthea Harvey. Copyright © 2004 by Matthea Harvey. Reprinted with the permission of Graywolf Press, Saint Paul, Minnesota. All rights reserved.

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Poems by This Author

I May After Leaving You Walk Quickly or Even Run by Matthea Harvey Rain fell in a post-romantic way The Backyard Mermaid by Matthea Harvey The Backyard Mermaid slumps across the birdbath The Objectified Mermaid by Matthea Harvey The photographer has been treating her like a spork all morning. “Wistful The Radio Animals by Matthea Harvey The radio animals travel in lavender clouds