The pylon is a skymark
of this gridlocked world:
rain coming down,
metal mortised into cloud
welding the weather to the beaten ground.
And it is horizon’s ladder,
a lunar lander with strut and rivet
where it aspires
above the old freezing works,
the lightning belts of pines.
Sunstruck it is a pile of lines
worked into the hill:
two scimitars
sliced clear of wires
eloping into the tungsten glare.
Yet climbing into dark
this tower travels nowhere; is only
the moon’s escalator,
a starlit tuning fork
thrumming its counterpoint to dreams.