The machine is a tap dancer,

is silver,

has nightmares of rust.

She wears the moon on her face in a chalk.

She glows purple when she is near wisdom.

She glows purple among the trees.


The ribbon in her hair is forked,

tastes danger on the horizon.

And the robot who has been terrified to bathe for years

clicks his heels ever closer,

curious and cold,

while the ribbon hisses poison in her ear