Ranged along shelves as puppets in plays
We've flattered and flopped or soared and stooped
In scripts that others have fashioned in whims.
Wired in screws that pierce to the bone
Ours are hours of fields unsown.
So fitted and decked in finery and glaze
We cackle and buckle in calculated haze
And wait for the titanium hammers of days
That paste our forms into infertile sand
Which trickle into bell-jars of time.
Severed and sawed into stultifying parts
Ours are figures on en-wrinkled cards.