on a metal contraption of some kind
erected in the woods, the height of a man,
can be knocked off with a black branch,
revealing tiny rivets, a bolt or two,
but nothing more of the machine’s purpose
than can be guessed at from its peculiar shape
and solitary position
out here where nobody lives or works or ever comes
with only the wolves for company,
howling in the wind that whistles through its delicate wires
sending us to sleep.