After work and before home, I drove a ways up the Kolob Terrace Road
And pulled out on a scrubby basalt ledge to hobble around and glance
Over the edge, here and there. It was neither so sheer nor so fearsome
As I had hoped, although at points the slopes displayed sprawled quantities
Of broken metal trash, rusted to dried blood and brown lace, whole
Machines and chunks of machines old enough to indicate there was a time
When folks hurled busted trucks and farm equipment over the shoulder
For fun. But it didn't look like the kind of place for a clean explosion.
Too bad. The sky was clear and the traffic was light, and if the solipsist
Or narcissistic nihilist or whatever the hell he was was too cowardly
To risk a prolonged acquaintance with a suite of fresh fractures at once,
At least he could have convinced himself of some romance in the fall
Were it not for all that elderly garbage oxidizing ever so slowly below.
I winked at him and hoped never to make his honest acquaintance,
Then got back in my trembling car to drive home. When the sun set,
The stars leaned close, and some lost their hold and fell.
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