At night the factories 
    struggle awake,
    wretched uneasy buildings 
    veined with pipes 	
    attempt their work. 
    Trying to breathe, 
    the elongated nostrils 
    haired with spikes  
    give off such stenches, too. 
And I shall sell you sell you 
sell you of course, my dear, and you’ll sell me.

    On certain floors 	
    certain wonders. 	
    Pale dirty light, 	
    some captured iceberg 	
    being prevented from melting. 	
    See the mechanical moons, 	
    sick, being made 	
    to wax and wane 	
    at somebody’s instigation. 
And I shall sell you sell you 
sell you of course, my dear, and you’ll sell me. 

    Lights music of love 	
    work on. The presses 	
    print calendars 	
    I suppose; the moons 	
    make medicine 	
    or confectionery. Our bed 	
    shrinks from the soot and hapless odors 	
    hold us close. 
And I shall sell you sell you 
sell you of course, my dear, and you’ll sell me.


 = David Hoak