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This appears in a pre-2010 issue
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Bare Metal
C. Gerhard Buehler
Fresh thunder is on its way over
Our desolate rail yard,
Dusty full with scents of bare metal
Laid in rust under our slice of the sun
In the unprocessed Salt County
The workers are never around
Though they must be some time
Why else carve out this smoldering circle?
No more leaf free, grassy lots
Or green stained jeans
Near where we farm shiny glare
The buzzing comes from empty phones,
And the many spirits here
Plenty enough, to get snagged on