The room exists for the machine
The machine is wheeled into the room
The machine contains the poem
The machine exists for the poem
which is plugged into light
The rays of light converge on a blank
freighted with language
There are dense textures and tones
There are weightless phrases
There are solids floating on colours
as if rocks were the echoes of
their fires and their seas.
The machine exists for the room
it gives it meaning
When light wheels out of the machine
it suddenly breaks.
B. C. Leale, Leviathan and other poems (London, New York: Allison & Busby, 1984), 66.