by Fred Mayer
It parts the forest pushing trees aside,
And leaves a wedge of concrete gaping wide.
It stretches past the plain like the leveled light,
And curls around the mountain tops at night.
Or sweeping by, it mocks the creaking waste
Of dying towns, rotting and hollow faced.
It cracks the desert’s lip and hard, parched, dry,
Trails chalky white against the blazing sky.
And running past the eye and round the bend,
The concrete has no purpose and no end.