Driver Rates Turn Ratio 22:7

The small machines dream of late money.
I drive some new dolls into nucleated ice.
Nearby, a naked child rises skyward.
With a shining sound the family tree shatters.

Like footprints in shredded music.

The small machines are doing the sky.
Again, my stone children recoil and surge.
Inside a worm, all the banks find god.
At last these fine warm toads are my momma.

Like bones in radar dogs gone far astray.