Every so often when I finish a book, I try to write a poem from it, this one is a Cento from Robert Price's Ford: The Men and Machine
The Rouge
One of capitalism's alters
a vast satanic cathedral
All night the Rouge growls
its fires and flares
casting flickering shadows
its furnaces glowing dull red
around the base of its brooding bulk
The industrial guts of America
Europe has its palaces
but America celebrates her native genius
with monuments of a rougher sort.
—A Cento with credit to Robert Lacy, Ford: The Men and Machine
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