The righteous sunrise lends a certain charm
to the machine. They suffer stresses, strains;
have hidden motives, catalogue the harm
in terse, harsh statements. No one really gains
that I can see. A ticklish thought persists:
we're on the mend, have a straightforward choice
between two partial views, and this consists
in shifting shapes, and a distrustful voice.
The openings are sealed. Did it cost much?
An unmissed coin? A princely sum? We judged
it worth our soul. We did our duty. Such
Delight we held our breath for, but we fudged
it in the end, we didn't touch the air,
or seize the moment, make the grade. Unfair.