Wheels

Mere mass seems to come with gears—
A low gear when it just is,

Then a gear in which it moves,
And a gear in which it burns.

Life’s the gear at which mass wants.
You’re the gear at which mass thinks

And gives names to share with lives
Geared up for want and thought both.

There’s a high whine in the ears
When mass spins all gears at once

And spits out strings, lines, and sparks
Of terms that have near no mass,

Nor want, nor think on their own,
And yet here we are, we sing

And hiss strange, tight things, blurred links,
The last and the least of gears.