They are bound in what is green

There is silence
for a second only
until the sound of tongues
tickles the air,
and bags crinkle and soles
pad the distant thud of a train,
grounded.

They sit.
No concern for the breathable,
simply centered on an object to unite them.
No talk of action, or fruit
of implied labor
a mother’s love
even plastic.

[A thought bubbles]

Muffled voices seep below a door between us,
heavy from age and dirt
in layers
to secure the lifeless,
internally.

We respond to those commands
before we are meant for nothing,
but we are.
Our accidental sense of perception
carries this load
in signals.

My language, encoding illusion in allusions,
changes carriers imperceptibly.
Even my body,
unable to sense the present shift
into the past,
congeals.

Even the light of modeled
form does not become me!

Forgive me for unbelieving
that a presence like you
be nothing but remembered circuits
prefused when skin was smoother.

This machinery is not
built for you,
nor by you,
but yet remains,
convinced by loops and torn by
logic.