This is "Autobiography."
Factory is something not heard but written in degrees,
as breath.
It never signs off, delivering you to you
as a finished, but minor, product.
Something copied and stapled, slipped into your foot locker.
You can't value it.
All you can do is replace it with an ethnic cuisine
to riddle the ancients.
It's all you can do to keep from setting your face on fire.
When the cat runs from one side of the house to another,
in an effort to find the childhood friend who
died from eating old blinds, the page is left to NAFTA.
Factory chases the cat out of the work,
though local manufacture is the aim.
We should all be ashamed by the niceness of the working class.
All, "can I get you something?"
Factory gives you ways to get ahead
that are industrious but uneven.
Sleep with this history.
Find yourself under that Volvo.
The office for agents is the etymology
of factory, what we now call the conference.
It reads, properties for poetry's.
Factory is both fact and act, and mere letters
away from face and story.