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Hymn to Technique


Tell me who they are, the handsome lads
        tossing a frisbee in a sunny field.
One of them hugs it to his side and hurls
        a perfect centrifugal puck across the day.

Tell me who they are, for to see his friend
        receive and hoick it back is to learn
of a mirror’s unerring bounce and to gawp
        at the angular swing of a carpenter’s saw.

Now one of them sends a tennis ball so high
        it could bother a kestrel’s lofty mooch.
It falls to a stretching hand and – oh – their shirts
        are off, their abs are tanned and brassy-firm.

The type of boys who’d pick a watch’s guts
                                          for fun and put them back.
That moody kestrel snared, they’d have it hunt
                                                    a bunny for their pot.