What lives were lived within these
Weed filled hulls?
This automotive graveyard
On a windswept plateau
Where the cry of carburetor ghosts
Howls through a parking lot of vines
Did lovers discover youth’s first
Venereal sting on those ancient springs?
Did children gaze out these windows
Eyes wide on falling stars?
Did old men curse at transmissions
That were fixed in first gear?
Each ancient jalopy interned
Within its own mound
Where fallen hoods stand askew
Where urn shaped trunks
Cry out for mourners’ offerings
That never come.
In this field of vine and rust
No requiem for the dead was played.
The carcasses of metal were discarded
But I find it odd that even today
After years of rot and decay
These former chariots
To places both sublime and mundane.
Every window remains
Not a single glass is shattered
These diaphanous veils continue
To reflect the passing of storm clouds
And moon phases
And give us a glimpse
Into the crystalline void