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Incinerator

                                    Nick Norwood


In its heyday fueled on anything spent
(cottonseed hulls, husks, ratted twine, lint),

this fifty-foot volcano, rusted-tin
monument left up by a defunct gin,

stood simple sixty years as symbol, shape,
in its weedy, scrap-iron lot. Too late

the town got around to tearing it down,
every bright light ever lit there now gone,

reflecting: cream cone, witch’s tit, tepee.
History lesson: The Past, Exhibit A.

Bored sentry, whistling, ticking in its joints.


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