Landfill (May)

 All those plastic bags of house waste will come back and mount up at paradise door. Open the door and they will pour through the house. All our luxurious waste will, not may, come back to judge us. It’s a warning, met with laughter. Out of sight is out of mind. Garbage was collected by garbos at purgatorial early hours, once. Now it’s fully mechanised, robots in dawn streets lift bins high, emptied into sightless depths. Tips were the destination, dumps, buried by the word ‘landfill’, as though land were there just to be filled. Best not to ask questions?