the machine

this machine 

doesn't do

what I think it does

I guessed incorrectly

at the design

and can't make sense of the flaws

although I know that they are there 

the manufacturer was not to blame

nor the original owner

it was hired out: the machine,

to inexpert hands

they wished nothing more

than to examine the workings

and delicate parts 

for reasons I still can't tell. 

it strikes us now

that though irretrievably flawed 

the idea of the machine itself 

is the most beautiful thing 

that ever was. 

buoy

there is a buoy:

even in tides,

evocative of apocalypse.

it never sinks

life is too tempting,

too basically interesting (sometimes)

which makes it 

utterly impossible

for me to submit 

Eggshells

dignity implodes

bare humiliation blooms

and then I remember in my daze:

"It's not about you"

forgiveness swoops in

gallantly sweeping horrors aside

leaving only 

the well marked broken eggshells

you carelessly trod on.

those and spilt milk

I still cry over it, though:

the milk.

and then I pick up the eggshells.

I glue them together 

for witches to make boats of

in which they will endeavour 

to sink my ship some other day.