Sharp edge of a coldfront
stands west of Dells,
a rigid lead line on a ridge
where the leanin' broke-roof barn
stands ready to take in buckets.

Ain't been scavenged
for old wood yet,
for picture frames,
sold,
where the upwardly mobile,
shop for the quaint, rustic things,
reshaped for authenticity,
and a clipped last year
wall calendar
image of a red barn
in a yellow field,
below a blue
cloudless sky,
following
the perfect rule
of thirds.