Under Ground

No more sunlight.

It's this again:
Doing what they want
We have become like machines
We are only the exteriors of things.

Name more sunlight.

Is this a gain?
Doing what they want
We have become their machines
We are owned, leased. The exit erased off things.

Name, or sunlight.

In this age, in
Doing what they want
We've beckoned their machines,
We are owed at least – the exit? A raise? Other things?

No more, son! Light!

I miss ageing,
Doing what I want,
Way back in them oceans,
We rode to Leith, Exeter – rays of things.

No morse: on-light.

I'm a sage in
Doing what they want:
We buck under motions
We erode to leave. Exit her. Raise offerings.

One more sunlight.