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.