“No one has driven over the bridge in years, but it is still there on the flats. … There, on the bottom of Ford Lake, is where it rests today.” James Mann, local historian, Ypsilanti, 2008

At night, the Ford Lake Dam still hums.

Old Hydro buzzes in his sleep, jumps shivers down deformed bullhead catfish spines.

Deep beneath, the Sauk Indian trail remembers soles that anchored river to the land – tramp, climb, traverse – footprints chime from fort to village, trade post, friend.

Cyanobacteria now whisper the messages in blue-green sibilants: spill, spill, this made thing, earth dam, iron suspension, tremble on the land. We will we will we will run away and rush and cleanse and sweep away sandstone, metal shavings, Fordite scraps of car color lacquered in layers, this palimpsest of racy longings, ram shiny fins in baby blue and rose that parade on Sunday down Depot Town.

The factory presses rectangles onto the rusty earth.

Ant workers crawl into chocolate cake segments layered next to the lake.

Air intake valves pierce the rain sky.

Tonight, close by, the Ypsilanti Ford Motor Plant lassoes a sinus wave of power: kick the starters, traverse voltage regulators, jump ignition coils.

All tune — fish, soil, iron, tiny algae — till brake cylinders caress and channel all energy to the tomb.