-bury my heart at the sour-apple tree-

there’s a sour-apple tree

standing in the junkyard

inside the rusted wire fence

close to where we nabbed a chrome-

plated hood ornament

from the fat Desoto.

It’s a small tree

and it looks like it barely clings to life.

It’s the only tree standing

inside the junkyard's fence and

it’s bearing fruit,— those small

green apples so sour they’d

make you aware of your tongue

turning it to sandpaper.

we left it in peace.

as for that cancerous Plymouth
sitting behind old man Rachlin's
broken shed, we'll leave it in peace, too.

this didn't make heroes of us.

Plymouths yielded but minor fruits for our labors.