-Considering meadows and trees and sheetmetal and the sun-

I went to the meadow.

Sure, it was remarkable and I've spoken of the meadow,
The romance in the meadow of my youth, the dry, yellow

Ochre grass cutting knee-high, and burnt,–– a place

Unpopulated but for the billboards calling my attention to bathing

Beauties hawking lotions, perfumes and long, long cigarettes

Standing guard at the perimeter.

It's this poet's obligation to say something of such things.

I've seen my share of trees, impressive regardless of season,

Reaching for the clouds being born to do this, and the sun

Which rises from the morning's east splitting the Narrows

Making way for early salesmen on the road,–– and with others of my kind,

Scaling the wire-crowned fence to give the broken hulks of

Sheetmetal in crisis another shot at a new kind of life,––engine hoods

The size of continents once sporting chromed ornaments of winged-

Women piercing the wind's oncoming rush, ornaments of rockets

Blasting-off toward the horizon, toward the beaches, the drive-in

Theaters, the seduction of the quarter-mile pole, the constant relations;

Imagery undefined at the time, now it seems my only chance at redemption.