tires

where the city starts to come undone,

at the railroad embankment, beyond the staunch

colossal cicada of the substation

in its splendor, you start to notice:

used up, towering, a field of them, worn

or rippled texture in each paunch

and smokier than all the rembrandts

put together: rubber-acropolis,

sanctuary of the banal—attacked by torrents

in autumn, suffering belts of rain and ice,

now whirrs insect-silence, july-transparence.

the dandelion with its angora pullovers,

the yarrow at the fence, and on the lawns

ticks, fully focused on their borreli-

osis; high on their thrones, forgotten ones,

the deities dunlop, goodyear, pirelli

far from the glorious skid-mark fumes,

the ash of progress, some proxy

world that forcefully attracts you, holds you,

pressing your child-face on the chain link,

while way deep down it whispers or coos:

“i will grow, get colder, denser, of great

darkness, till nothing more escapes my rule,

no star, no grain of dust, not even light.”