on a balmy first of March
the trees’ shadows barely rustle

in the ridgetop breeze
an odor of burning plastic

which might or might not have come
all the way from East Palestine

a propeller plane circles
no clouds to hide in

i sit surrounded by the uprooted
their dwindling bulks

like old axles each with just
one decaying wheel

misaligned a freight train
shrieks around the mountain

spine beginning to twinge
i walk on

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.