Pittsburgh Plate & Glass Company Lot 63
       

Nothing dies in a field of steel.
White clover lines barren barrels like a hem
and all of the wasteland grasses bow their stems
to this kingdom of pipes. In the steel

field something is toxic, something is wielding
a thousand little half-deaths as the alloy writhes again
and again: chrome-hard, chrome-alum, chrome-end,
chrome-grown. Steel fields

the whole, freezes the grass in place
so the brownfield lives like a still:
a buttery gray, a home
for world after world, for space

sounding of soundless place. Light wills
itself to a stone, makes this land a living bone.

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Copyright © 2012 Sara J. Grossman All rights reserved
from The Cincinnati Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission