Waste Site

Every line’s a budwood,
Every phrase a graft, poor
Seedling words to carry

The fate of the greenhouse
On their flexible backs.
The whole machinery

Of domesticated,
Literary lyric
Laid out in even rows,

The gardener culling
The weak hothouse flowers
For the apology,

Proposal, funeral,
And congratulations
Market, looks alien,

An army grown in pots.
But wait until it’s closed,
Abandoned to decay.

Come back in a lifetime,
A century, you’ll see.
Some of the stocks will prove

Being feral suits them,
And this greenhouse machine
Will leave vigorous weeds.