The Oak Trees

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.

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