print previewback ROB SHAPIRO
Abandoned Shacks in North Carolina
Tucked beside the freeway, behind wings
of barbed wire and stockless fields,
they shoulder into dusk and fade.
Spigots frozen. Stone-hard hills.
Sometimes, I want to disappear
that simply—growing into dim pastures
with deer ticks and snakeskins,
wing beats above.
I want to be filled with wind
and winter’s slow thaw, a hibernating light.
Collapsing inside themselves
they’re almost beautiful, glittering
like forgotten temples out in the snow,
crossbeams broken, doors unlatched.
Like a bright hoof, the moon
stamps down through their missing slats
and at last the night surrounds.
Every star is sown; every field is blue. 