Daily the cortege of crumpled
defunct cars
goes by by the lasagna-
layered flatbed
truckload： hardtop
reverting to tar smudge，
wax shine antiqued to crusted
winepress smear，
windshield battered to
intact ice-tint， a rarity
fresh from the Pleistocene.
I like it； privately
I find esthetic
satisfaction in these
ceremonial removals
from the category of
received ideas
to regions where pigeons'
svelte smoke-velvet
limousines， taxiing
in whirligigs， reclaim
a parking lot，
and the bag-laden
hermit woman， disencumbered
of a greater incubus，
the crush of unexamined
attitudes， stoutly
follows her routine，
mining the mountainsides
of our daily refuse
for artifacts： subversive
re-establishing
with each arcane
trash-basket dig
the pleasures of the ruined.