Hulk
The foundry squats along the highway, spalling
in desert heat. Only the tang of scorched metal
remains, a sharpness that claws at the throat.
It wasn’t always like this.
Once molten iron roared in great vats, rhythms
of clang and furnace shaping the bones of industry.
Now the empty yard bakes in silent dusk
as the dinosaur ossifies.
train whistle—
the slow drift of rust
downwind
haikuKATHA #41, March 2025
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