In the country the buildings seem smooth
as if their faces were lifted
by benevolent surgeons—
so laid-back, they rarely make a mistake.

And their doors—true the wood seems insecure
when bothered by cathedral fantasies
but they remain upright, with a steadfast reach
like people who speak clearly in crisis.

To some the local is not alive—it is a process
that has stopped, like a factory machine
the day of the big shutdown.

But to others, who see past the horizon of the cliché
industry returns to the valley
an extravagant, steampunk renaissance fair.