Power Lines

Outside, four floating power lines - the long
black hairs of an electric titan; four
gigantic tentacles in water, live
and flowing from some steely man-of-war -

sag high, usurping Sunday's rococo
sky. Nothing's wrong - metallic gossamers
in heavy transit flung from pole to pole
by some presumptuous hand I can't infer.

Ignoring playful winds that loose fall trees
to dance and cheer, these cords lie still and dumb.
They know full well that dancing never lit 
the room, or forced the frost-burn to succumb.

I've scanned these steel lines all my life. I've laughed
at those who echo Thoreau, not with quill
or pen, but with I.B.M. Nothing's wrong here.
Four wires snake down the road toward the landfill.