Robert Lee Haycock writes

Paper Cars

Beside the graveled shoulder on a curved road 
that was never there
I discern fresh scat of some harmless predator
The new lambs scatter among the shining trees in an impenetrable wood

Behind the polished desk in a shingled house 
that was never there
I peruse recent catalogs of unwanted tools
The young postmistress laughs at flocked Arabesques upon brocaded wallpaper

Before the locked gates outside a shuttered factory that was never there
I squint in the growing light of darkening lamps
The adolescent mastiff licks at nervous fingers on his endless tether

Beyond the barbed wire atop a chain link fence 
that was never there
I smell the dead water of dammed rivers
The ancient sturgeon fly near the deep margins of unseeing eyes

The Lamb -- Franz Marc