Dead machines
At night in the headlights
we see it at the entrance
to the dump, slightly off center:
the washing machine,
gleaming white in the dark,
invested with importance.
We pray that it grant us
success and everlasting life.
Until we find new gods.
On a field dusty with grey
we discover the burial grounds.
Tractors, diggers, generators…
Bow deep and worship
and grant us, this day,
our daily breath.
