The Orange Burn that Sags Above Industry

The orange burn that sags above industry
at night, while it claws in your chest with such
dreamlike talons among the graveyard-sea
emptiness of vast concrete in its touch.
Walking home in darkness, an owl in thought
on cracked sidewalks with hands deep in pockets
and chin in chest, to pass the wood-pole rot
of a calming buzzing lamp-blue socket.
A long ride in unfamiliar country,
gazing out for solitary farm lights,
imagining some early barn sentry
cock's monocolor soft glow, rusted tight.
Radiating outward, boldly breaking the stars;
a modern pillow warmth, headbulbs of passing cars.