The engine revved and idled, compressing
The freon that then expanded to leach heat
From the surrounding air. The roar of water
Far below, however, was always louder
To body, which pleased puppet, who needed
White noise to safely vivisect the restive self.
In an allegory, puppet would correspond
To something either more tangible or more
Abstract, depending on which was the big
Idea. But this was an already hot afternoon
In early spring. Puppet was an evasion,
A jerky, jumpy, shadowy patch over the lost
Connections between soul, body, and self.
Puppet was the poem. Puppet was the error
Of my days. Puppet was the interference
Pattern created by the waves that made,
Down at the deadly bottom of the canyon
Among the roots and ants and rattlesnakes,
A sound louder to body than all the genius
Of generations rasping hoarsely through
Motors and compressors and words. I said,
To myself, when self cried out in selfish pain,
The operation is almost over. Hear the rain?
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