Now that it is September
my car shed tears at dawn before the sun
with care dries its grief.
Perhaps it remembers a song
sung in the Korean factory where it was made
before it was tarted up spray painted
and shipped off to Europe,
a faint chime of an ancient culture
that is but dead
yet lives in man’s common memory
and will one day express itself in an abstract rose
spun into new live by words made of dreams.