The great alley trashbins become barges on stone water,|
old lettuce is seaweed of the back steps,
glossy pillows of grapefruit and chicken bones
mutant odors lost gloves pallid vegetables
The small furred sailors|
flick their thin tails, leap in from the fire escape.
Now at 6 A.M. comes the engine of anchors and shovels.|
Shuddering out of our dream rugs,
we sit up alerted:
"The trash is sailing away.
Our trash is sailing away!"
From the city canals, to the estuary dumps, and one mile|
and two miles and ten miles,
fifty miles out to sea
A garden is growing up in the sea.|
The shopping bag husks break, give way to big seeds
sprouting ink and oil, gristle and felt.
Moss grows up made of iron webbing, nets of cable and chain.
A flower grows up|
bearing no pollen
heavy on arbors, glistening fruit hang
without scent, without taste.
The sea gives itself to the leather roots
providing what it can.
Nothing has exactly died,
but the supple fish swim beneath the giant leaves
like little questions
not understanding why their algae is hard to find
And the seagull cries with his mineral voice|
asking about the coastal cities
where the big tar plains extend, with no soil,
and nothing growing.