The plume as tall as taller than the building
How far a mile     apart each     each or now
I’m passing them I’m closer now they might be
Three miles apart     the building from the plume
The plume distinct because it is a building
Flying     it is a cloud refusing sleep
Most of its body     from the base up till
The head assents     and sways     and drifts away
Plume of waste seen     from the train but from the train
From farther off the plume had seemed to rise
Beside the building and I had to guess
The mile but as I passed was     watching passed
They stepped themselves unchanged apart     the space
Between them changed the angle of the plume’s
Head I could see it     better tilted more
Dramatically away than I had thought
As if against the wishes of its body
The head would lie back down on     the earth would dream
That had once been a part of the earth     before
Being ground to bits or pounded flat or shredded
Then burned     then burned     then burned     because no soul
Escapes     the smoke is not a soul escaping
I do not see souls flashing in the smoke
But even so     I see the physical
Beauty of the plume     of waste the dreaming head
Reclining yet reclining     to become
More cloud     but whiter than a cloud     soft wind
Brushing away a mesa made of sugar
Sky shining through the feathered edges     sugar
Bleached white with bone char white as bone can bleach it