We slow for town. The mausoleum shell
of a coaling tower, dead for fifty years,
bruises the air. The Kmart parking lot
glows in an ark of halogen, bearing trucks
and unluxurious cars; the surrounding dusk
is lit by dim stars held between the fingers
of women leaning against a chain-link fence
to smoke. The waxy, bleached rumor of moon.
This is their birth town, stoned, ill-fitted in
its black tar suit, one row of streetlamps half
asleep. Pole signs for vacant diners stretch
their EATs to the precarious dark. O how
each blind alley and church bleeds past us. O
how, at this speed, their lives resemble ours.