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An evening star was a fire-blackened hearth
lattices of timber falsework in the polar regions

the hoofbeat of the iron horse to the core of their being
in all her glory; and she had smashed the nitrogen

eyes on the nest and eggs of this spur to the space age
delicate clocks in control rooms across the country
the days of cast-iron sheathing that coils and uncoils

A morning star and a few bits of iron
moonquakes burning glass on a wax tablet
artificially frozen reflection of the nonexistent

clean-lined towers earth hugging houses
you are beautiful, you are dreamed of glimmers
over the old ornament-free steel slung across the gorges of

your cries, for I have walked the formation of networks
and main streams of ancient floods
dry channels hinting

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