My western home has a compost bin
where the worms and the fruit flies feast,
where slime is abroad on black plastic walls –
a home, home in a bin
Oh! if this were a globe, a hot summer sun
would bake the poor mites, and the winds
would press from this part of the west
the last of the wriggling beasts,
til all that is left on top of the mess
is a scrunchie of dry bean vine
Still, it’s a home, home in a bin, for the woodlice
settling back in, their furry legs in endless motion,
their articulate backs like mini moon rovers –
the apocalypse now is not over