in the new world, the continents are knitted together. Their hashed edges are glued by rafts of garbage. A catapult keeps the sun up, strung of withered Nike shoelaces. And the hands of child laborers scribble with a pen dubbed grass-green, drawing back the foliage when it has all been massacred. Trees are constructed, centric of a motherboard and a plug. Leaves fall in calculated patterns of 2, 3, 2. Disintegrate before I can throw them.