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Poem	This is a place on the way after the distances can no longer be kept straight here in this dark corner of the barn a mound of wheels has convened along raveling courses to stop in a single moment and lie down as still as the chariots of the Pharaohs some in pairs that rolled as one over the same roads to the end and never touched each other until they arrived here some that broke by themselves and were left until they could be repaired some that went only to occasions before my time and some that have spun across other countries through uncounted summers now they go all the way back together the tall cobweb-hung models of galaxies in their rings of rust leaning against the stone hail from Rene's manure cart the year he wanted to store them here because there was nobody left who could make them like that in case he should need them and there are the carriage wheels that Merot said would be worth a lot some day and the rim of the spare from bald Bleret's green Samson that rose like Borobudur out of the high grass behind the old house by the river where he stuffed mattresses in the morning sunlight and the hens scavenged around his shoes in the days when the black top-hat sedan still towered outside Sandeau's cow barn with velvet upholstery and sconces for flowers and room for two calves instead of the back seat when their time came
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