Everything
in this forest must
collapse.
Leaf begets earth.
Fruit begets spawn.
Branches splinter.
The rot of trunks
becomes peat.
The thing, its parts.
Stumps become nurse
to saplings and moss.
Stones are concealed
until roots and rain
unveil them again.
The forest falls
and falls in on
itself, nourished by
the long memories
of what’s dead.
Deeds done by dew
and the invisible.
And then there is
this poem which
unearthed me on the
road to the landfill,
Written with a pen
fished from the muddle
beneath the car’s seat,