Towers

by Felix Jung

It’s only late at night, driving, that we see
these lonely, wiry towers. They’re always far
from cities, planted by the outskirts of a farm
where even crows won’t bother roaming.

The metal is skeletal, a thin tree denuded of
its leaves and branches. Along its spine are
bursts of light, tiny pulsars flickering against

the black. Once a year a lonely man straps
cables to his waist, climbs each rung replacing
spent, depleted bulbs. The newer ones shine
hard, as far as light can go, until they fade

and burn away. Poor creatures, these towers
blinking all the night. They catch the eyes of
pilots who in turn, pull up, pull back, who
do their best to keep their distance.