Here in the apocalypse I waste nothing:
paper put to use as paper, kindling, bedding;
pens put to use as pens, hairpins, picks, chisels.
Nothing without three or more uses--a plethora of lives
to support my own.

Here in the apocalypse I make my house in ruin,
turn underground tunnels to roadways, improvise technology
and systems of technology--the wreckage of the old
recast in the shape of my necessity. 

Once I tore down mountains, laid forests low for my muse,
left waste wherever it fell. The land was sick of me
long before I was sick of it. But there was no need
for caution then. I had plenty, and cared to waste.

Now hollow cities stand as monuments to my disaster--now 
all is rubble, and now I reuse.

Comments: Written sometime in 2006 or early 2007, I believe. Not much else to say.