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Amy Miller | The Car Goes to the Salvage YardI dreamed again
that someone drove me home,
back to the house
with the fire station
across the street,
the small men at dawn
pushing cloths over the burly
red engines, raccoons
returning to their hills,
and dew dissolving
the skin of everything.
There is also dew
in the land of the dead,
and clouded glass,
and pebbled paint,
a bent umbrella
in a back seat, little else,
things most would rather
do without.
Unlike Prometheus,
when dawn comes here,
I am less. No one
descends in the night
to restore me. This
is the way
I disappear:
rust to rust,
each piece
of such small worth.
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