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A FEW THINGS
The candelabra
of ragweed that burns
on the sandpile;
the broken pylon,
concrete toppled
on its side;
the shattered length
of one-by-six
thrust from gravel;
the dirt-clogged
throat of rusty
sewer pipe;
not only these, but also
my footprints in
crumbling earth;
shard of brown
beer bottle
at my feet;
the fly that endlessly
scrubs and fidgets
on my knee;
the runoff stream
of rusty water
from the railroad tracks
and the dull gray
braid of cable
it washes over;
also the white
asters that blink
in the warm breeze;
here, a few things
in a single place;
a few things
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