from Archaeology

16.  

In the courtyard of the hotel
ficus trees grow in concrete boxes
Grass struggles in the ashen dirt
spreads itself thin to survive

Ants flourish in refuse too small to recover 
drips of beer   crumbs from corn cakes
the trail of leavings that could show us
where we have been and how we are stuck

There must be an instrument that can plot
the scraps we drop along the way :   

in a photo taken from an airplane
see the shiny paths cross and merge

leading always
back to the slick ponds of slag

the concentrations 
we bog in