Fast Run in the Junkyard

That junkyard fell down the side of the hill
like a river: baby buggy, black leather
cracked car back seat, sofa wind-siphoned
by a clutch of tangled wire hangers hanging on
like spiders. We stood and fell as momentum told us
toward somebody’s sodden Sealey dying of galloping miasma,
jumped on bedsprings sprung to pogos, and leaped
for king-of-the-mountain where boxes and cans fountained
up the hill’s other side. Sailing saucers, we rode
back down, flinging hat racks, burlap sacks, chairs cropped
of backs and flotsam crockery, breezed in league boots
back out of everybody’s past hazards, up to the road
to break tar bubbles all-the-way-home where things
were wearing out as fast as we were growing up.