The Junkyard Poem by Patrick O'Reilly

Just beyond the mouth of slate fangs
Lies an endless junkyard
Brimming with rusted barrels,
Rusted hooks, rusted traps,
Smooth grey wood,
And rotten green twine nets.

It's got a violent slowness,
The junkyard,
That leaps to snatch now and then,
And swallows whole the sailor.

Then it washes ashore.

Nor'easters rip across the junkyard
Into the dead coves,
The tiny crevices which hold the collapsed stables,
Where there's nobody left to feel them.