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.