Each wheel has twenty spokes, whose rims
Are made of rubber, I suppose (although
It could be metal or more likely wood) –
The picture, as it is in gray, simply doesn’t say.
There are cogs and cylinders and chains, arranged
Correctly, that is, congruent to their purpose,
Even if that only means they appear as what I see.
The mystery in the machine is knowing its necessity:
These figures set together in their own transfiguration --
True, not the wheels in circumference if I push them,
Not even that they hold, but the structure that they hold:
The champagne steel, the bottle of perfume, the leather
Seat where the operator rides the reigns –
All the pipes and their circumlocutions following
The stately beast, finally the nozzles and the schemes
Through which the destiny of water leaks.
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