Powerlines

They rise from the shoulder
Like stakes through the heart of the plain.

The tar and sap slathered on for shelter against the heat
Heat up the surrounding air like a desert;
That sweltering air rushes into my lungs, charged with the smell of
Swamp and toolshed,
Axe and chainsaw,
Cherry oak and crude.

. . .

First step up the metal rung, and the earth simmers below.