Singing, the factory on the hill whirrs away.

Nothing so like brick smokestacks —

much more plastic, apocryphal —

as if it had forgotten what being a factory should look 

                               like.

Nothing moves on its outer shell,

slick and folded in on itself

like a christmas puzzle

or magicians’ rings,

only much more dull-square and plaster-sheen,

throbbing in the visors of the afternoon walkabouts —

a second, much less forgiving sun,

around which only orbit

three satellite bruisers

(money as gravity)

who only fall

asleep.

In blue night the whole

complex is dotted

with ghastly puce eyes

etching radon shadows of intruders

into its walls,

hulking and calamitous

as hopeless sea defence granite

languishing under vicious sheet-green waves,

reflecting an evil chirality of constellations

such that children born too close to the factory

come out wrong, indifferent

and grow up to be bad kissers

who love winter

and hammer away all day

crafting malfeasances so mundane,

so incognisant

that they can only be described by some-

teen digit numbers.