The Old Factories

broken shapes littered in the overgrowth.

The drive home

took us past the ruins,

moon-rock gray and scorched brick,

broken shapes littered

in the overgrowth.

What do you think they’ll do with it all? I asked.

The ruins silhouetted

deep violet overcast,

cruel reminders

calling for an end,

or to an end,

concrete echoes of a past

with which no one dare reckon.

Nothing.

So long as that’s what makes them money.

Her husband slouched in the passenger seat, half asleep.

She thought about her father,

who worked in those ruins

back when they were still a factory.

That night,

they parked on the lip of a ridge

overlooking the llano,

ornamental purgatory,

horizon glowing blue-silver,

lighting the nightly rituals

of life

hidden in otherwise total darkness.

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