The wrench is huge. Monstrous.
Its grease is time. Deep inside, it is pink.
The wrench barely moves, yet worlds shatter.
Sour wrench. Profound.
A bitter sourness. Almost the air.
Like a metal shadow of dead slow. Huge.

Spiralized intervals. The teeth. Deep inside.
Words frozen. It can grasp.
Anything may turn, even unexpectedly.
Deep inside. It is pink.
Falling from the sky.

Absolute. The wrench is its own god.
A greasy shadow in silence. The mighty.
The whole shape. Forged as a god.
Impossibly literal. Deep worlds like
the metal shadow of anything.