No worms break the surface from the sidewalk,
To the bottom of this red-brick wall, and you’ll find,
On closer examination, that the bricks are fake:
See the weed-choked grasses blow and blow.
I’m not a biologist, but I know, from tales heard
In childhood, the signs of erosion; and far be it
From me to question scientific-theory that is
The bedrock of society, about angry winds.
My father was a biologist, he died of sorrow,
We had a terrible ceremony,
Walked in single file through the abandoned
Lot, and gave bites of ashes to Ladybugs.
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