Goingsong.

The rhythm of machines is not a rhyme: Daily shovelsful of iterative Spoonfed sunshine is alliterative Living, well-lit passages through time Resembling motion, resting counterfeit On pallets of content, stamped, drop-shipped Out pat. This sleep has dreams built into it. But seams have burst & split & slipped The batting loosens in this human ticking, Traduced by all the pocket watches clicking. & Lulled in murmured choreography, Every hour hand glides the circuit, Spins in concert with the sun, sticking Each to each in grinning synchrony.