Monday, December 21, 2015


The tensioned rebar remembers the furnace, and the
furnace remembers its refractory bricks. This garage,
its nested voids skinned in cast concrete, remembers
the weeds that once patched the alkaline soil: a caliche
blanket snatched away before the garage could dream.

The interlocked slabs that make the garage an empty
vessel are kin to those cast alongside the highway. At
dusk, those flat planes lay open like palms to a fortune-
teller, the seams like lifelines waiting to be traced by a
patterned, rusted finger. This evening, a visitor: a lone
woman dancing slow, measured flamenco arabesques;
her boot-heels stamp out a rock-dust duende, consoling
the weeping concrete for what it can no longer dream.


Lori Witzel said...

Yup - I really did see a woman, elegant and poised, dancing what seemed to be flamenco-infused movements alongside Mopac Expressway, in the never-ending sidebar of construction near Enfield.

Larry said...

Good one, Lori! Nice imagery.