Go out to where the roads
shuck off their pavings,
out where the hills shrug
the houses off their backs,
and the wild grows tangled
and thickly treacherous and
night has not yet whipped
off its cloak of stars.

Even there,
among the nests of birds
and down in the badger burrows,
you’ll find pieces of us.

Refuse. Scraps. Tangles
of wire, bottlecaps,
strips of plastic, metal springs,
shards of glass and oil cans,
all things made
by man or machines.

There are no places
we have not stained.