Epigraph

A pot-metal body

on two little wheels,

absurdly,

bow-leggedly

walking away to the dump

with the slag, the

purgings of iron, the

villainous drool of the furnace—

that is a cinder buggy.

It is also a sign

that what man refines

beyond

God’s content

with things as he left them

will very soon perish

for want of the dross

from which it is parted.

Why hath each thing its cinder?—

even the sweetest desire?