 The Clockwork Heart by Murray Graham Mechanical he to mechanical she, expresses his love most clumsily. His words are halting, his gestures inept; And where was his comfort, the times that she wept? His extent of emotion, the breadth of his love, Are part of the program, no grant from above. He hasn’t the gift, the smoothness of speech, the depth of soul, for the heights he would reach. Poor mechanical thing, no guilt I assign, The blame to be had is entirely mine. For how could I know what a poor thing you'd be, Formed, forged, and patterned completely like me. Murray Graham lives in Canada, where he reads everything, writes history, and occasionally dips a toe into other writing genres. His first love remains speculative fiction, which he has read for over 40 years. 
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