How Some Things Are Made of Flesh

In fields muscular and rolling
spongy with the itch of hay
a half-wrecked old Thunderbird
sits in tired tracks of scarred movement
hidden by blackberry bramble.
Its body, thick with rust,
holds dry smells of peeling paint
the way skin holds fragrance.
The front fender dangles into dirt,
like a gate with its hinge broken.
Revealing the soft, red interior,
torn tissue ever dependent on good thread,
the driver's shattered window
becomes a spider’s web of cracks,
the back seat choked with Bud cans.
Grey cobweb dust flutters at with nearby movement:
a pulse slight in the throat of a bird.

LL, 9/19/2009. Prevail.