Lumber

Why are the cars parked
where they are parked?
Why did they get assigned those little
areas?
The ones that are quiet
in winter as gassed beetles,
their eyelids dark purple,
their shoulders gloomily sagged?

Are there engines in there?
Seats?
Carburetors?

Or is it just a husk?
A bin with bodies
upright, unfucked
seed pods
scattered in the bright field…

When will they get picked up by the wind
and carried off?
Rats in the jaws of eagles
going to heaven.

The chimneys through which
they will fall
are rammed shut with black
feathers,
the palm leaf broods,
flaps its waxy wings meaninglessly
against a white wall
& in the yard
the wood waits,
sawed up and young
and full of pink marrow.

Good blood. Solid brain.
Providence.