Sunday, March 6, 2011
U S 25 South
Within cudzu cathedrals, rotting frame
And rusting roof still standing in the green
Profusion, what does its survival mean?
My vision seeks, but cannot find a name
For any who lived here in joy or shame.
An impluse strikes; I strip behind the screen
Of vines; in camera's eye alone I'm seen,
A solitary vision of the same
World-sadness that this rotting relic cries
To any ear not deaf to feel its tears.
Irrational, perhaps, to strip and pose,
Framed in the dusty doorway: down the rise
Unseen, unseeing, 'mid his whining gears,
The trucker sheds no tears as on he goes.