The Hands of an Automaton

When I was eight I learned that there is no

Hanging Garden’s caress to protect me from the

Cruel indignation of pink-belly slaps and other childhood atrocities

I really just wanted to get away

Fly to the walls of Babylon and cry vacuous tears

Until the salt and sand of the desert dried on my face

And I became locked in dunes of biting sand

Conversing with the immortals

Emptying myself onto Poe’s perfect Nighttime Plutonian Shore