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Zack Moy
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Poetry1 min read

The automated automotive machines move metal.

A boy alone on a beach buildscastles, but the water washes

away their foundation every day

Leaving my car I mosey about the
shore near my new neighborhood:

a beach, a boat, a band of treasure

hunters searching for a retirement
fund, precious metals lost to men

paid their health to move my furniture.

The automated automotivemachines move metal.

I’ve seen defeat in the morning,

the look in the boy’s eyes during the sun-
rise as he sets out to build his fortress

again and again and again

and again, automated automotive
machines move metal every

day, but for those nomads

living in the sand, for thosecreatures crawling in the sand,

this boy moves the world.

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