long before the playful leap became the local dare
to plunge the heavy plunge full of gravity
like a boulder let loose from a cliff over the river
further down that way, northeast.
Cars go past, one by one
maybe ten a day over the cross-hatches
of wood and iron wrought with love
and maybe one man's hate
now left in the care of lichen and rust
and underneath where the young boys
gather and wait for the cars
like the troll for his goats.
Old, rotten, decaying machines
dead giants in tarpits stick
arms and torsos out halfway
from the topsoil and, mid-scream,
died decades and decades
for us to watch with foresight
for our brushes and pens
to record in hindsight.
