Dominic Connell – Pylons


Abroad, I watched each nation that I drove through
parade its own mutation of the strawman theme;
the giant steeple ladder, coat hangers en masse.
a robot flying kites across a bypass,
the largest lit at night to ward off aircraft.

They flashed their constellations over autobahns
as I washed in from France, the game then little more
than seeing how far, door to door, a long weekend could last.
Due east to Eisenach, for one. Or south, Locarno.
You were the proverbial in my eyes back then

of course, as far fetched as the electricity
that races at our beck and call. Yet you
are the event against which change is quantified,
the benchmark for its worth and full extent.
The proof that every circuit finds its earth.

At home, the native cut-and-pasted model
impersonates a budget Eiffel Tower
as far as I can see. On autumn days
they sound like humming fridges from the hill where we,
because you’re here now, stop the car to trace a powerline’s
…………………………………………..          ……………..graceful curve.

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