She steals steam after the summer rain,
rolling it off the asphalt as a carpet
she will lay in her den.
She was named by the tesseract
snarling in the backyard.
Instead of her period each month,
she turns blue
and Inspiration knows she is fertile.
You are so cuttingly engineered,
designed with impure
perpetual function in mind.
What does it mean that your gears shudder
at the turbid passion chewing a gash across her left hip?