Trialogue on Abrasives

JOHN SUROWIECKI

          First Machinist
Erosion is our truest daily metaphor.
The revelation is in the jewelry of
the grain, the inner skin replacing
the outer until the thing is ground
down and the world is speeded up.

          Second Machinist
The wheel never lasts long enough.
It falters, edge-glazed or loaded with
waxy beads, cracking like hard bread,
sending stony fragments into the void
and yellow stars across the canopy.

           Third Machinist
Just another dust-to-dust scenario.
Virgin oxide or recycled bin-bottom
refuse or whatever: it all flies away,
wind-tossed, center-fleeing like us,
settling on dust that went before.

JOHN SUROWIECKI

He can also be an impermanent stillness,
a breeze carrying children's shouts and
a hint of cooking. He's been a tirade in
the cause of privacy, a star lingering in
the morning air, a plea for mercy. He is
short and overweight, well-tanned and
impatient. He draws poison from the dirt
like Indian mustard. He's a chrysalis or
a rose in a bed-smelling room. At times,
he has friends in the restaurant business,
at times, not. He can be a seal or he can
be the body of water that holds the seal.

JOHN SUROWIECKI

The wartime medico said: Your
Brit's as goddam pugnacious as
as he is reasonable; most won't
even acknowledge the existence
of goddam ice cubes. I met a few
in college, e.g., the lovely M who
married W only to leave him: off

to Sicily with a Lawrencian and
later to Saint Kitts where the sun
turned her azalea-red. She'd gulp
her green-and-yellow expensive
drink and palaver like a girl from
Cape Ann, much like Mr. Lee at
Mr. Dilly's: too, too, too. And Dr.

J willing to love all mankind, but
not an American. The coastline is
being pulled apart from invisible
inner squalls. Good-bye Swansea,
Belfast, Dover and a wispy world
that doesn't traffick in certitude
or peace or help for those in pain.