Here’s a little machine, its gears precise, turning teeth, whirring wheels: steel drum just so, like a torturer’s instrument, tiny nipples arranged in variegated rows to trip the steel tangs, tensile, tempered, slim as a bird’s tongue – a mechanical sorcery, teasing tempos somehow musical, lilting, lovely, from springs wound tight – all beneath a complicated tableau, a girl turning, perpetually gazing at a chariot tracing a circular track, its horses’ forelegs prancing, noble heads up and down, a grassy park, a tree, a glass sky, a globe to be concise. And I, with wily hands inside the workings, agile fool, thinking, tinkering, never satisfied.
Music Box
Music Box
