We lobbed our refuse over the hillside
Paint-peeling bikes
Tangled on the chain link fence
A fraying peacoat dangling
from a drooping sycamore tree

We wouldn’t look at it
Rust-addled chains
From someone else’s swing
The skull of a deer
Wrapped in hot pink yarn

Twenty-eight years of casting away
Until the earth beneath crumbled
Spilling the scraps and debris
Into a forgotten and sealed-off space
With ancient drawings on the wall

From that disarray arose a new form
A body of warped planks
Of bent spokes and asbestos tile
Its head the crumbling bowl
Of a sun-faded barbeque grill

Caught by the fuchsia yarn
The buck’s skull swung
From its truck tire neck
A pendulous talisman
Gaping at our negligence