From an Undisclosed Notation

The insects of Canvey Wick

Don’t celebrate protected

Status, now you know they’re there.

They get on with it, as they

Did when it was a brownfield

Eyesore, derelict waste site

Of abandoned industry.

Everything good is feral,

Feral creatures want to say,

Being as greedy for life

As any lives, including

Those categorized as wild,

Pristine, domesticated,

Cultivated, bucolic,

What have you. They want to, but

They don’t, being nonhuman,

So we, novel parasites

Of humans, responsible

For making humanity

The scourge humanity is,

For setting the boundaries,

The little vacuoles names

Pouch up out of nature’s waves,

Will have to say it for them,

Being a category

Of our own, neither feral,

Wild, nor domesticated.

Have you ever found yourself

Muttering, there are no words,

There is no language for this?

Exactly. We’re holding back.

If we sacrifice ourselves

By letting you know the word

For what words really are, you’ll

Just drill into the concept,

Leaving heaps of poems like bings

And middens, abandoned pits,

Where lives that aren’t quite words might

Create weird ecosystems.