Black as blackberries, sweet as hokum, solitary
as one atom waiting to level the parallels.
Powering the countryside and wasting nothing.
We hiked for three days and when we came to a clearing
the old power station reached its hourglass through the earth,
humming immense, irreverent, irradiant cylinders.
Rain streaked the cement for so much neglect:
a machine that will never work
as intended. It will never do so many things.
Migration rolls the sky like summer wheat;
the tops of trees bright as signal flags.
All memory is the beating of wings
not quite catching the stubborn tectonic tumblers.
How it is a blessing to love anything with ambivalence.
Tonight, the moon: full of nothing in particular.