TO A BUICK SKYLARK

Hail dents alight like spit
Birds their nervous worst
From the heavens, or at least their general neighborhood
These profane streams of art

Rust lightening to a golden color
In the false benefit of sunset
And the dissipation of storm clouds
Fleeing from the happy 6 cylinder race

Ground and air for blocks around
Registers the muffler problem
As, when barren evening, clouded by loneliness
Is crowded with your cracked and flowing highbeams

Teach us, car or bird,
What sweet scent shaped of pine
Emanates unhurried
From the place of gloves and wine

(These cans that flood the capture
Are they mine?
Are they mine?)

How indeed can we be glad
This Detroit must know
Not road-weary, traffic mad
No curses from my lips shall flow

And we shall park
In this world
As they are now
Parking before us

JD Frey--October 14, 2003