Salvage

　　 by Amy Clampitt

　　 Daily the cortege of crumpled

　　 defunct cars

　　 goes by by the lasagna-

　　 layered flatbed

　　 truckload： hardtop

　　 reverting to tar smudge，

　　 wax shine antiqued to crusted

　　 winepress smear，

　　 windshield battered to

　　 intact ice-tint， a rarity

　　 fresh from the Pleistocene.

　　 I like it； privately

　　 I find esthetic

　　 satisfaction in these

　　 ceremonial removals

　　 from the category of

　　 received ideas

　　 to regions where pigeons'

　　 svelte smoke-velvet

　　 limousines， taxiing

　　 in whirligigs， reclaim

　　 a parking lot，

　　 and the bag-laden

　　 hermit woman， disencumbered

　　 of a greater incubus，

　　 the crush of unexamined

　　 attitudes， stoutly

　　 follows her routine，

　　 mining the mountainsides

　　 of our daily refuse

　　 for artifacts： subversive

　　 re-establishing

　　 with each arcane

　　 trash-basket dig

　　 the pleasures of the ruined.