They must have once supported massive weight,
but now they rust a ribcage in the air:
the 17 old I-beams twisting straight
up to a road no longer hanging there.
Like dominos they stand – a rusting line
no finger topples – yet the engines eat
among them, rooting hungry by design
to bite the steel that once upheld concrete.

As if Druidic custom set them so,
they might denote a message for the sky
that priests of industry have placed to show
the sweep of commerce, or to amplify
our mark, except now demolition’s planned,
and Naked Lady stalks retake the land.