A bad weld leads to metal
in the eye, and swaths of highway
between industrial parks.
The youngest nod their heads
to maxed out music in their cars,
in preparation for the noise
throughout their shifts.

The remaining forests serve
only as barriers between
one group of houses
and the next.
Buried under the oldest trees,
they leave mason jars of liquid light
fermented in the ground
like rotten dead.

Strangers from the city sit in living
rooms with carpet stains,
and watch the way the parents raise
their children.
They take notes on all the smoke
that is carried back inside
between a complete lack of control
and desperate cigarettes.

Around fires they drink
the dug up golden potions
and watch the lights go out in sequence
through the treeline.
They burn the fallen branches
and wake up around the ashes,
then stumble back to work
clean from their sleep.

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