Up the grain elevator
one hundred and eighty degrees
(but no proof)
an aspen chopped in two
makes a fence holding
asses in funny-coat blankets.
When the rail rusts, what's left behind?
Down the track electric: a bottle
cast off to house earthworms;
an impatientist painting
bequeathed in night to the sound
of apple pie vapors wrapped in waxen mem'ry.
Full poem here...