Hidden in Byzatine marble jungle
The York stone Baobabs with termite
blocks
With ants, the concrete mangroves
where the call
Of soot stained statues and tin rats
echo,
The penguins and the parrot carouses
Hidden here amid ceremony and veneration.
Are the great pump houses.
Gargantuan pipes, the old hide replaced
By copper, by stainless, in a forest
Concrete towers like a tall coal
furnace
The spinning whirlpool
The suction mouths of graft, quotas, licence
Hoover all liquid from vast depressions
The great motors turning, bound in
velum
Bolted tight with torts. Gearing and
levers
The whirring din of paper bladed
turbines
With the power of language and routine
The monumental PSI
To force this liquid
To vast oceans in the sky.
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