Artifacts Poetry, Ray Hinman

New World Order #1

The buildings have invaded fields,
the sun glances off archribbed mirrors.
White, sterile
Chunks of slab with fake porticos.
Homes were scraped aside
for row upon row of random cars;


the sky
is pelted with lights
that slide from one horizon to the next,
the powdery sheet of stars
is blotted out.
None of this has given us our freedom,
though our freedom reclaimed these fields.