seeds born furiously
beneath blind undergrowth
this is the story of the
approaching fire
the nettles who could not see
the pines too crowded
and their final act
of community, inferno
earmarked teeth lend hand
to pathway, hut to hut,
all reclaimed thatch and timber
pads put down, the sound of
a lighter opening up to breathe
there is no stream along the spine
of this forest
just the heaving mass of thorns
and leaves, the rotting new-nothing
meant for future fiberglass fields
wasteland wasteland wasteland


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