Automata
The front gate opens itself,
so too the garage door.
The world rearranges
at the merest of my gestures.
These marvels belong
in the throne-room of Constantine the seventh
to humble the embassies
of faraway kings
whose splendour is local, and
withers at first sight of the city’s walls.
I may as well be
one of my forebears—
some cowherd who leaves
his boggy birthright
to visit this bewildering court
at the navel of the world
—for how well I understand
the working of these things:
the door I can release
if the power fails
but the gate will not open
and I am powerless:
captive of the landlord’s convenience
until the man comes to fix it.
