by Glenn Buttkus

“Why do you speak to me of stones? It is
only the arch that matters to me.”–Kublai Khan.

Castles will surely crumble, but their stony bones laugh
at Time’s attacks.


Twilight comes to Tacoma, where rich men’s yachts
are foreground for museums.


Union Station, once a terminus, now just
a federal hogan.


The window was an old skeleton, wearing new glass
as cloud mirror.


I found a pipeline being a bridge over oblivious waters.


An old Dodge logging truck can become sculpture,
left to the elements.


Water towers have just become hen’s-tooth scare
as covered bridges.


He was a forgotten king pretending to be
a young wayward prince.


A solitary shoe becomes a clue about a careless
missing child.


Some statues seem to be screaming silently:
seen but never heard.


You must realize that all silver clouds do not have
Rolls Royce on their undersides.


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