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(for Kay Ryan)
One could imagine in a thousand
years, or ten thousand or more,
the inhabitants of this land
(if any there are)
worshiping at its feet. See it
as they might or will, not
a rusty old bucket on stilts,
town name fading from sense,
but monument, edifice, temple
to the sky's munificence,
raised by ancients to venerate
the womb of waters: pendent steel
firmament, raining
at the turn of a wheel.
And as we do by cathedrals
perhaps they'll wonder at those
who built these scale replicas
of heaven, the makers
who honored their model most
in leaving such extravagant
room for doubt.