Part of the machine

How many nights spent together, afraid of your noise.

My first lines, immature like august grape,

took form thanks to your mechanical precision,

a poetry made of metallic hammering,

the strength of fingers guided by vision

unleashed on those defenseless letters -

my voice; and for this I'll be forever grateful, dear

old, at-rest, unforgotten, alphabet machine.

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Taken on March 16, 2012