I'M digging a grave for a toaster,
a spatula's my utensil of choice.
Under gnarled elms
a refrigerator lays on its side

weak with grief. A stove
stands with its oven door
flung open, a grimace of misery
frozen on its face. And the only light:

billions of forks sparking
in billions of microwaves
deep in the dark sky.