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Forty Motors

motors from buses

stacked on a shelf

a grave for old buses

this grime floored depot

some from my childhood

some from the country

abandoned in paddocks

crumpled by frost

where nesting wasps

crept in shadows

forty motors

of black smeared metal

curve and pipes

metal number and letters

bodies stacked

without fire or chugging smoke

their only heat

is this heatwave day

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