The machine that builds the machine,
steers its own life,
raises its hands and prays for me.
After one hallelujah and two virgin Marys,
it takes a seat at the wheel,
turns right when I ask to turn left,
and forward we drive.
Through the woods,
into the hills,
we speak to one another in his language,
words older than the trees.
I ask him about God,
and the things in between,
he smiles, turns the radio knob,
as slave and master sing.