Philip Levine 
A winter Tuesday, the city pouring fire,
Ford Rouge sulphurs the sun, Cadillac, Lincoln,
Chevy grey. The fat stacks
of breweries hold thir tongues. Rags,
papers, hands, the stems of birches
dirtied with words.
Near the freeway
you stop and wonder what came off,
recall the snowstorm where you lost it all,
the wolverine, the northern bear, the wolf
caught out, ice and steel raining
from the foundaries in a shower of
human breath. On sleds in the false sun
the new material rests. One brown child
stares and stares into your frozen eyes
until the lights change and you go
forward to work. The charred faces, the eyes
boarded up, the rubble of innards, the cry
of wet smoke hanging in your throat,
the twisted river stopped at the colour of iron.
We burn this city every day.