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Salvage

 Daily the cortege of crumpled 
defunct cars 
goes by by the lasagna-
layered flatbed 
truckload: hardtop 

reverting to tar smudge,
wax shine antiqued to crusted 
winepress smear, 
windshield battered to
intact ice-tint, a rarity

fresh from the Pleistocene.
I like it; privately I find esthetic satisfaction in these ceremonial removals from the category of received ideas to regions where pigeons' svelte smoke-velvet limousines, taxiing in whirligigs, reclaim a parking lot, and the bag-laden hermit woman, disencumbered of a greater incubus, the crush of unexamined attitudes, stoutly follows her routine, mining the mountainsides of our daily refuse for artifacts: subversive re-establishing with each arcane trash-basket dig the pleasures of the ruined.

by Amy Clampitt
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