MP Armstrong

love and the ct machine

this is a loneliness
made up of whirring
and metallic mouth
and obscenely cold plastic.
this is the primary-color
stickers of trucks and trains,
the ceiling-tile triptych
of a tropical beach
chipping language out of silence,
teaching how to turn the slip
of a needle into a waltz.
this is the curl of a white sheet
almost like an embrace,
this is laminate-covered foam
with just enough give,
this is nobody
listening to the sick one
but the machinery.