Sure as the strange moment when
one by one the birds begin to sing
and drown out the noises of the road,
you’ll have your hand on the cold
lock mechanism each morning.
The days fold in according to design.
Little plastic cups of hot sweet coffee,
portions repeated in small time,
the grinding of metal rods into swarf
and oil, the motion of your tools
in use creating other tools.
Unlid the centrifuge again. Roll the sump
backwards up the hill towards the bins.
It is January and morning
and the daylight itself feels a trick.