Some believe thatall the leaves onall the branchesof all the treesare exactly wherethey’re supposedto be,even the deadand dried ones;
Another puddle,animated out ofan arbitrarily formed cavityby a thunderstorm,perfectly ensconced into the asphalt sheet.
The very land of landfill lordsis alive;A crude creature in itself,The sizzling scrap and smokeits skinand the bubbling browny brothits blood.
One sleek stump,smelly and straight,I draw myself outwith the drudgeryof a drunk dagger.
My roots extend,and sometimes though,I loathe,they strangle and seize,they must…