Engine

Away, away, mercenary machine, out from under your Pittsburgh sky; your paper engine drives you forth--and yet you hang behind.  You left your heart on a rusted hill, in renaissance grafitti on crumbling alley walls: green cartoon words from a bitter youth, and yet they still survive.  "I would have wept with her," you told the Sea, and he unfeeling showed you shores where men learn not to weep. Rather, we grim things, our souls of stone & metal: away, march away--we mercenary machines!