Reptiles circled in a dance of mating,
Or two bulls horned and splattered each other's doomed blood.
Across this cross-tracked waste,
Across the cracked plated of clay,
The exposed skeleton of glacial stones and sand and
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The few cigar-shaped stubs of corn,
We walked toward the house.
Shadeless, it swam in the sun-swept field
In the currents and eddys of dust and heat.
Its cellar windows are empty, eyeless
Perhaps blown in by whatever monster
Skinned and gouged in the field.
The wires for the door bell hung in a way
That pictured London and Cologne
When all the walls hung with shreds of pipe and wire.
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Penn Fires Stiegman; No Successor Named
