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Salvage by Amy Clampitt
Daily the cortege of crumpled defunct cars goes by by the lasagna- layered flatbed truckload: hardtop
reverting to tar smudge, wax shine antiqued to crusted winepress smear, windshield battered to intact ice-tint, a rarity
fresh from the Pleistocene. I like it; privately I find esthetic satisfaction in these ceremonial removals
from the category of received ideas to regions where pigeons' svelte smoke-velvet limousines, taxiing
in whirligigs, reclaim a parking lot, and the bag-laden hermit woman, disencumbered of a greater incubus,
the crush of unexamined attitudes, stoutly follows her routine, mining the mountainsides of our daily refuse
for artifacts: subversive re-establishing with each arcane trash-basket dig the pleasures of the ruined.
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