This Poem Contains No Natural Fibers

This poem is completely
understandable, shining
toward you off the stainless rollers.
Utterly seamless, this poem’s
homogenous glow.
If from its first spill a hairy tube
groped for soil, if a sticky
green eye like an infection
trembled at the top—
it’s been buffed to the unified
hardness below.
When an early draft breathed
hot fur in a burrow,
when its paws
smelled strongly of paw,
a slurry soaked the matter
to molecular components.
Every word fresh from the extruder.
We were keeping the room empty.
This poem with its bowl
of light on the sill.
This poem in its solid quiet,
in the slight scent
of flame retardant.
This poem, pure block,
replication removed,
comes with erasure,
so it can turn once,
this poem unopened,
in mint condition.