Sumac

Steep from the tracks a band

Of stragglers, leant this way

And that, drop in progressive

Descent, only still to stand

In memory for remembrance

And its own dismemberment.

Each desiccated rank 

On rank, a remnant lasts

Of what wood, on this particular

Embankment would have 

To  end as. They chose this slope

To grow on at a slant,

To hazard by mere chance hope,

Hacked back by the Railroad’s hands,

Failing to drink of the rain as fast

As it ran past them down the hill,

Till none thought else of them than

That the least that could be done—

As this was what they had become—

Would be to cut them down.

At the bottom of the slope piles

Of them lie; beyond them heaps 

Of junk, empty lots, billboards,

Buildings, streets, walks,

Pedestrians, cars and, miles

Beyond, green tops of trees, 

And clouds and sky

Beyond these.