Do not sit on the folding table
I lay there instead/ The sun's breath
slides down my hip/ Things made
clean/ I wait, watch eyes
churn in rounds, one way/ Then
heaving, the next
They can’t make up their minds
No, machines don’t seek balance
The slick edge, the dam freed
over, the baptism of stains—
They’re programmed/ By those
still, with desire
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