Festering instincts operate
the dead machine.
It crawled out from the swamp
to infiltrate our lives.
Art hoax, junk pile,
alien dropping:
it watches unceasingly.
Nothing now moves
or makes the slightest noise.
But, somehow, it’s still alive,
anticipating our fear,
magnifying confusion,
drawing the darkness down.
Its huge shadow
now defines the borders
of our helpless realm.
Art hoax, junk pile,
alien dropping:
it may never let us know.