On the coarse brown hide of the mountain over its rolling tongue of the road we drive to the mouth of this carcass piled above us, in its shadow. Far into the vertebraed distance the stubbled skin lies in plains. Where we see water, it is an open eye dead to the sun, and when we look up the sun is its crawling maggot. Only that a foot leans upon a pedal sees us out of the cemetery of this body, dead from before the time we were swamp. Rubber, oil and steel die beneath us for our deliverance, and where trees dress the impoverished sky, our eyes open again within our burying selves. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...NOTHING GOLD CAN STAY by ROBERT FROST GRIN by ROBERT WILLIAM SERVICE |