Atlas of Quiet Engines

At the edge of town, the old cannery sleeps with its long ribs of glass and rust. Dawn threads itself through broken panes, spooling a pale music across the floor.

Inside, a conveyor still dreams of motion— belt of silence, a black river nailed in place. Dust rises like steam from absent kettles, and every bolt holds a small, cold star.

I walk the aisles as if through a library of worn-out labor, of hands now elsewhere. A moth lifts from a motor casing, its wings lit briefly, then swallowed.

Outside, the river moves without noticing, carrying a slick of leaves toward the bridge. The town wakes by degrees: a door, a kettle, a bus. I keep the hum of the empty hall in my pocket.