Friday, November 09, 2012

Business At The Garden’s Edge

Is this a junkyard church, this decay
around us, bricks, steel and broken glass?
Do rusted gears not turning say mass,
is their oxidation how they pray?

Thick clouds turn sunlight to shades of gray.
A photographer kneels in the grass,
hesitant to intrude, to trespass
the broken bricks and cut wires display.

Tiny computers, tiny motors,
focus the camera in the dim light.
The photographer just frames the shot.

Old factories. Old houses. Old stores.
Broken junk transfigures in our sight.
Tiny glories that won’t be forgot.

This is a pile of rubble
under an overcast sky
cloudy enough to turn white
but thin enough to still shine
and turn rusty metal bright.

The rubble came from wreckage
of a building coming down
where people used to feed birds
by throwing bread from their cars
despite the warning sign’s words.

People don’t feed birds here now
but hydraulic equipment
fills up dump trucks with rubble,
eating—so to speak—wreckage
like birds eat bread, no trouble.

The trucks never perch in trees
or flock on electric lines,
they drive in, load up, drive out,
and they don’t coo or sing songs—
business is all they’re about.

The overcast sky is gray
and the wreckage is dusty
but nearby trees are still green
and the orange rust seems to glow
as if the Sun could be seen

and in fact at quitting time
the Sun finds a way through clouds
and a nearby garden shop,
not wrecked but very structured,
glows orange from bottom to top.

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