by Amy Clampitt

    Daily the cortege of crumpled¹

    defunct² cars

    goes by by the lasagna-

    layered flatbed

    truckload： hardtop

    reverting³ to tar⁴ smudge，

    wax shine antiqued to crusted

    winepress smear⁵，

    windshield battered⁶ to

    intact ice-tint， a rarity

    fresh from the Pleistocene.

    I like it； privately⁷

    I find esthetic⁸

    satisfaction in these

    ceremonial removals

    from the category of

    received ideas

    to regions where pigeons'

    svelte⁹ smoke-velvet

    limousines¹⁰， taxiing

    in whirligigs， reclaim¹¹

    a parking lot，

    and the bag-laden

    hermit¹² woman， disencumbered

    of a greater incubus¹³，

    the crush of unexamined

    attitudes， stoutly¹⁴

    follows her routine，

    mining the mountainsides

    of our daily refuse

    for artifacts： subversive¹⁵

    re-establishing

    with each arcane¹⁶

    trash-basket dig

    the pleasures of the ruined.

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