For something perpetually falling…

For something perpetually falling
apart
    whose pieces are also
self-contained and dysfunctional
art,
   it stands to reason
as humans do –
         without
the three required feet,
             but two.

This Machine

has no purpose, meaning
it makes its rounds
neither serving nor needing.
Others fail, feeling
pain and shame

arrest their animation:
working mothers
who can’t have children,
the pressure keeping them living

leaking, geared for higher function,
noble, though immobile.
But this is useless

perfectly – so kinesthetic,
boring! – a light on
in an empty room,
a single man
snoring.