Even the whales were invited
to the inauguration of the machine.
One of them said, I am tired of sorrowing
with my own voice, with my own blue heart
wanting to beach on the strand. I am tired
of making recordings that no one translates
with any accuracy, or at the very least into
flowers. The herring wanted to keep their sleek
grey dinner jackets instead of simmering in glass
jars until their flesh wrinkled. True
hopelessness is when there is no future
to anticipate, other than one delivered
on tiny pieces of dry toast borne on silver
trays as small talk circulates in a hall—
Perhaps the machine is also responsible
for that kind of piped-in music. Once,
a king put his prisoners in a brazen
bull. A fire built underneath it produced
cries of anguish, which never reached
human ears. Instead, that sound was heard
as ravishing. A player piano, a program,
a score written for an empty orchestra.
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