on a metal contraption of some kind
erected in the woods, the height of a man,

can be knocked off with a black branch
revealing tiny rivets, a bolt or two,

but nothing more of the machine’s purpose
than can be guessed at from its peculiar shape

and solitary position
out here where nobody lives or works or ever 
comes

with only the wolves for company,
howling in the wind that whistles through its 
delicate wires,
       sending us to sleep.