“Look on my Works … and despair!”—from “Ozymandias,” Percy Bysshe Shelley



In the redundancy of waste—nothing, besides the thick black plume that rises over vast incinerations. The planet stimming on the spectrum of disorders situated round the infertilities. The cancers (liver, kidney…). The note in the plastic


bottle washed up on the shore—enough

to choke fish, clog oceans, fill the landfills—enough


to last 250 lifetimes.

They say the bags that film and float decay in 10-20 years, but plastic, in one form or another, waits, returns in violence: