The chassis of the time machine
is up on blocks on your patio out back.
All tubes and mirrors,
tender iron musculature.
Some manuals obscure the kitchen table,
stolen from the library where we’d first met.
They crackle when opened,
read that when activated
there’ll be a carnival of lights,
estuaries of past and future;
we get first kisses
at our funerals
where we did all our drinking at school.
You built the frame, connected it,
I provided the parts
and even the name:
Tonight our vertices collide
and we plot out co-ordinates
to be vivid again
though I never needed a machine
to revisit the past.