Dry grass
Grows in clumps
Ankle deep
A low hill
Dusted with snow
On it, a wall
Crumbling bits of tar
And a half rotten tile
Gather sun on their edges
Barricading themselves
In a circle of sick green
The other side is a basin
Brick mortar falling from its curves
As it stares into the cold
The grass-snow crackles underfoot
For a moment like live coals
Snapping in a great hot hearth
------------------------
A dead rusted can
Hangs by one nail
Silent and quivering
Chalk marks show
From a wooden beam that leans
Listless
The words too faded
Too worn
Too heavy with age
The sun lowers
Glinting off metal
And ice
A parody of sparks
At the barest touch
The can gives way
Tin on brick
Not hammer on steel
Not yet
