The Escalator
Into the lofts of abandoned barns lean Hay elevators, chaff caught in their chains. In their glory they bore the bales, Tied tight as corsets, up into darkness. They have a quiet, dinosauric grace now, The grace of things that have lost Their earthly usefulness. They are like the stairways that appear To monks kneeling in their cells After years of fervent prayer, and that They don't see because their eyes are closed.