We are surrounded by machines.
Feed them, she says.
There is grass woven tightly around each of my fingers.
There is moss and there are aphids dying.
Their wings dissolve in pink
and yellow traces.
Still there are the machines.
I want to ask her why, but a layer of music is unfolding from her eyes.
It coats my tongue like the pollen a wasp wears.
I knew this was coming, I think.