This is the first poem from the third section, the total dump
section.
The trolley has stopped long since.
There is no motor man.
The passenger thinks he is at the end of the line.
No, he's past the end.
Around him is the graveyard of trolleys, thousands
of oblongs tilted at angles to each other, yellow paint
chipped.
Stepping outside, he sees smoke rising from holes in roofs.
Old men live here, in narrow houses full of rugs,
in this last place.