Mammoth fire is followed by an atmospheric river of rain. Unrepressed mud slides down morning's
darkness with a "terrible grinding roar," carrying rocks and trees in viscous bile slamming through
walls of homes, burying dreams and possessions together,
preparing the ground for future archae-
ologists, perhaps robotic, to excavate this strata, unearthing a postmodern Pompeian disaster.

Slipping on "solitude like black mud," I place shoes into
footprints, prehistoric, or recently sunk. Wet green hairs
peek through morning's rime: The Waste Land, is never

wasted.