The brewery is a jungle. . . .

. . . .amid the clanging howls
of bell and gear,
the center of the
stainless steel jungle
trembles in its flow
of activity, sniffing, snorting,
sounds are heard
and the sudden scream of the trapped ones
who abide here in reluctance;
the steam
floats in multi-colored whorls
and hovers just above
the puddled water,
it is the jungle,
dark and wet in its underbelly,
hot as the Congo in places
hot and dry in others
(florescent sunshine)
the screech and whine of conveyor
simulates the cry of the hunted
and the hunter alike.

Part two.

. . . behold the bottle soaker
awake now at break of day,
the mammoth machine
shakes and stirs
then stops, reluctant to run,
but slowly unwinds itself from sleep,
finally is pushed and prodded,
goaded and urged
until it belches forth
a covey, a brace, a flock
of thousands of shiny wet brown bottles
her young yet to be filled with
frothy brew for the thirsty natives.

1976