Chris Hutchinson

Serving spoon or
funhouse mirror—

so enamoured with the tool
you sometimes forget

its function: gramophone or
satellite dish, anything

machined, moulded, made:
whatever lasts, not

the object but its task:
what you see, not always exactly

what you get: slide trombone or
shotgun barrel, this place

where uncertainty breeds
potential, where appearances

lay their traps: polyamorous
as a flower, polymorphous

as a glance fraught
with innuendo and subtext:

the way, in 1913, Duchamp schemed
with stool and bicycle wheel:

the way desire defines itself
in the moment before

the application of your will:
weightless as a hammer

at its zenith, then
downswing, decisive act:

that which exists in the hand,
less phenomenological proof

of your own cleverness
than reminder of what

you’re striving for: timepiece or
wedding band, or the abstract

work of words themselves: breath
harnessed to sound, sound

fashioned to whatever
meaning suits your need, serves

your fleeting purpose: every
invention, a jerry-built attempt

to nullify the distance
between your reach and what's

forever beyond your grasp:
telescope or microscope, or

even the weapons you turn
upon yourself.