Wrecked Lands

Wilds of the Fourth Kind,
Bugs so rare they don’t
Have names, counts past count
Per square foot, blast walls
Now in cloaks of moss,

Old paint flakes, leaf drifts,
Ponds of rust, poured floors,
Well-cracked, kept woods back.
Let the trees come last.
Let it get as good

As it gets, then woods,
Since, once woods, that’s good
As it gets. For now,
Small lives on small lives
Lace up the trashed wreck,

Make lots of small holes.
Leave scars and cramped caves.
The germs and the bugs
Will love this, and then
What eats them and then

What eats them, and then
At last, you’ll love them,
These bing heaps you’ve strewn.
Waste will mean what waste
Once meant. Where life went.