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Chapters (43)
  1. Cover
  2. Note to the Reader
  3. Acknowledgments
  4. Dedication
  5. Still Life
  6. Hum of the Machine God
  7. Athazagoraphobia: Fear of Being Ignored
  8. How to Disappear Completely
  9. Man Matching Description
  10. The Sky, Now Black with Birds
  11. Looks Like a Boy
  12. A Detroit Hum Ending with Bones
  13. On Metal
  14. Masticated Light
  15. On Gentleness
  16. Chionophobia: Fear of Snow
  17. The Boy Who Bathes the Dead
  18. Thalassophobia: Fear of the Sea
  19. Coming Back for You
  20. Hum of the Machinist’s Lover
  21. Hum for the Hammer
  22. Neat
  23. How to Get Your Gun Safely Out of Your Mouth
  24. And Even the Living Are Lost
  25. Aichmophobia: Fear of Needles
  26. I Do Have a Seam
  27. Triage
  28. The Man Who Paints Mountains and Helicopters
  29. Hum for the Stone
  30. The Girl Who Builds Rockets from Bricks
  31. Mechanophobia: Fear of Machines
  32. Pomegranate Means Grenade
  33. The God Engine
  34. Paper Frog on Spring
  35. Thinking Like a Split Melon
  36. If They Hand Your Remains to Your Sister in a Chinese Takeout Box
  37. Paper Crane on Letting Go
  38. Hum for the Bolt
  39. Paper Tiger to Wind
  40. Macrophobia: Fear of Waiting
  41. The Hum of Zug Island
  42. Ask What I’ve Been
  43. About the Author

what I tell you about circuit boards and snow,

I say to my jittery metal friends. I know waiting

is a hand closing slowly around needle

points, but we need the patience of a frozen sea.

Sometimes those words quiet the machines,

the hum gets easier to ignore. But pine needles

still fall gold. Dead trees creak. A rain-gutter sea waits,

machine-gray, and my throat begs to drink the snow.

Ask What I’ve Been

Ask What I’ve Been

I think cast stiff

around ankle, plaster poured

into a chest-shaped mold.

I think wet cement.

I say stone, and you think pebble

in stream or marble

fountain or kimberlite.

I say gravel or grave

or ask me later. There are days

I mourn being built

from this. Made

of so much aggregate

and gravestone, so little

diamond and fountain water.

When I was a construction

crane, my balled fists

toppled buildings of boys,

I rifled through the pockets

of their ruins.

Ask what I’ve been. Detroit

is a stretch of highway littered

with windshield,

a boy picking the remains

of a window from his hair.

I say Detroit;

you think glass.

I say glass; you think atrium;

I say atrium beams

warped by heat;

think cathedral. My shoe soles

say stain. Glass between treads,

treads imprinted on gum.

Everything finds its bottom,

say the sewers.

Don’t come any closer,

begs a map of collapsed veins,

while the burnt-out colonial,

this empty lot,

this alley-dark cavity

all say the shelter is sparse, yes,

but there is space here for bones—

a ribcage, brimming like yours.

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About the Author