Last

Why let them stand but as headstones for us-
necropolis of spire and weathercock
where prairie meets tractor, thatch and silo.

Along the crooked horizons retired grain
elevators crumble like dried loaves,
the roads and highways that connect them
untravelled as long since I drew constellations,
laying in the field, tails for Draco -
everytime I would lose him, a dim point
along the arcade would confuse and redraw 
the serpent in a path coiling round the moon -
where for warmth he'd remain close to the face, 
and when hidden behind the clouds, crush it. 

The silos that rise like mausoleums
among the broken fields darken beneath
the failing moonlight, concrete hulks forgotten.

Under such structures I laid in late summer
as a child, before the iron red of rust
and shades of moss stains against the white
of plywood siding withered my father's	
inheritance, leaving all for what -
the last still watercolors of our industry.



Josh Buermann © 1999