Over all the hills of Germany
lay tracks in stitches crissed
(but never crossed,
not in mother's garage)
the grass was powdered green,
the trees picked up from yonder yard.
Clay dragons made by clumsy hands
haunt caves cut out from hobby shops.
What fossils does that plaster hide?
The minivan has conquered France
with baseball games and PTA,
but here the mills still turn
through water painted on.
In silent steeples churchbells
hang with plastic hearts;
they shall only ring on Sunday,
while everyone is gone.
They will sound like angels
in this concrete cage.
Put your ear to the switchbox and hear it
Sing; the opera house unwrapped
on Christmas day surmounts.
Here and there, among the houses
flecked with powdered green
gone stray they gather still:
the passengers pile off and stare agog.
Wagner will make heaven of this
(not mother's garage)
where dreams drive on in scale 'N'
through German hills.