No bill will pass in this parliament.
Lines divide like the muddy
Atlantic from garbage shores

garbage on streets, garbage
in manholes

garbage of history.

There’ll be no mopping up
of age-old hate. All will wallow
in rinds, Styrofoam, needles.

Garbage abounds in the old
Garden city, buildings plunked
on old Dutch canals that should
have kept things running.


Of course, there’s no connection
between garbage and suicides,
foreign mines and noses turned
at city smells en route to dig out

There’s no connection between
my poem and photographs:
a mound of friends, stray dogs,
garbage choking their say.

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