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From a Midwest Motel Window


Across the field and far beyond,

Twin elevators rise.  They say,

With concrete pride, that grain–au fond

Lies at their feet.  Some Pharaoh may


Have raised them to this height, these sleek

Grey columns turning almost white

In noonday sun.  Soaring, they speak

Of other things, no doubt:  of light


That leads the eye toward Heaven, high

Above, of stewards here that seek

To store up bread on Earth.  The sky

Around them knows their worth, and, meek


And blue, recedes to let them show

Their faith in what cannot be topped:

A neon cross prepared to glow

When night comes on, and God's sun's stopped.


Len Krisak



From Fugitive Child, Aralia Press, © 1999.  First
printed in Cumberland Poetry Review.  Reprinted
by permission of the author.

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