Bound to the road by chains
Of motels, the great plains
Under the moon lie stunned.
An Adirondack stirs
Winds, groping for her firs.
Engines are gunned
And, not knowing which path to choose
Through the chemical plant, the river
Choked with refuse
Upturns a blithering stare
To the exhausted air.
Crows hover.
Let the new fallen snow
Before she change her mind
Lay bare her body to the Presto-Blo,
The drooped rose her
Quietus find
Head down inside the in-sink waste-disposer.
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