Richard of Gloucestor's

Machine

NOEL SLOBODA

Imperfect the time—

or perhaps you know

me, not for chitchat,

called while I was absent,

to avoid my untamed

temper, my wicked wit;

flying through my throat

like hungry kites,

they make me unhappy to

create—unhappier still to

hear—this message,

my voice a spur to

prick me to forget

myself; yet should you

wish to address something

to my person, to get

in touch another time,

an electronic cue marks

the waiting

emptiness now—