Its intensity
Is measured by a slipping gauge; one
Made slick by the fat of boiling anger.
The knob is equally free:
Though you'd think otherwise by the
(pursed lips)
(clenched fists)
Indications of strain and use.
It's the taste of rust and the smell of oil,
And of bionic sweat...
How are you? It asks
With flat, metallic eyes -
As it condenses your steam-voice.
How are you indeed
Sometimes it records the return;
blink of lights and
rattle of staves
made loose by tension,
on coils of thin paper;
sometimes it does not.
