by tobias crabtree
open me up. that’s it, maybe use a pocket knife. maybe use a finger nail.
take a look. that’s the inner. that’s the workings.
all those meshings and timings. some gears and rails and hammers.
since sometime, i don’t know when because my workings began before i left the factory, but since sometime, i have never ceased to tick and ping and spin.
the other night i heard my heart. i couldn’t tell if it was from the in or from the out. it is the key to the motion. it’s the pusher of the blood and the blood holds the mysteries of my beforeness. it has a story i feel but cannot read.
see me? it’s all so now. there are no guarantees from the manufacturer. all parts are present. maybe some sit still but they are connected to the original blue-print and so they have a reason. some parts have secret origins.
it’s delicate. the machine. the human. we must hold each other with care. our parts are important. and when things are broken we must do our best to fix them, lest they fail completely.
i’ve seen some wear. there’s a little rust. i think some gears have lost a tooth. it happens, you know? all machines have limits. the me’s and you’s.
and tick tock. and tick tock. spinning and pinging and shiny little parts.
and when the whirring stops, set me down. it’s ok. just put me down near the sea, she will know what to do.