If there is only one immense pile of garbage
big enough to be called Continent this is it.
It’s famous for its maps, the multi colored keys
to rail and ruin, neighborhoods slipping into themselves
on instinct and variables of regret like crows
intimidated by the gull army swirling in a revised snowfall.
Focus on one tree branch bobbing, crow heavy,
moved by belching currents of methane escaping
from the earth’s immutable ass, champagne by another
name, or moose guts in a garbage bag expanding.
How long can something live rising up or bobbing
indefinitely like a dream or a map?
The masher operator reads the echo of Faulkner
in the glittering. The access road is hemmed by a chorus,
the singers pointing out, submissively, the homes
of the stars, in cosmos, rising over the lip
of the red dirt, colliding horizons of flies, the hymn
growing louder like a buzz at the heart of everything.