The Hum of Zug Island

In Windsor they blame it on machines 
across the Detroit River. Residents can't ignore 
the low frequency hum taking the shape of a sea 
serpent on oscilloscopes. Beyond gray snow, 
plastic bags, and crushed hypodermic needles, 
I know Zug Island is humming—waiting 

the way the organs in me are waiting. 
My body is a building full of machines, 
some more complex than others: needle 
nosed pliers, pistols, a satellite—all ignoring 
my commands to sit still. But the snow 
wants to kiss us, I hear my skin say. The sea, 

pouring from gutters toward the sea 
that must be out there waiting— 
eardrums covet the rushing. Just snow 
melting, I say to the thrumming machines, 
but my voice is easy to ignore. 
So I find myself drawn again to needles 

of light through drawn blinds, needles 
of wind through a window's failing. A sea 
of all the outside I try to ignore, 
the hum that won't calm and won't wait.  
This oscillating piston of a heart, the machine 
that should know better, wants to see snow 

tremble. It goes on about this rumor of snow 
vibrating on that island where old factories needle 
into the sky. You can hear it. A machine 
that doesn't know it's dead sending a sea 
of pulses across shore because it's tired of waiting 
for someone to talk to. Tired of being ignored. 

I know you want to answer it, I say. Don't ignore 
what I told you about circuit boards and snow. 
My jittery friends, I know waiting 
is a hand closing slowly around needle 
points, but we need the patience of a frozen sea. 
Sometimes that quiets my machines, 

the hum gets easier to ignore. But pine needles 
still fall gold. Dead trees creak. A rain-gutter sea waits, 
machine-gray, and my throat begs to drink the snow.