Bad Fiction

If all the information
In Wikipedia burst
In a huge fireball over
The Siberian taiga,

And what survived was scattered
Across a few thousand versts,
And then you went walkabout
Years later in those forests—

That’s roughly what it was like
To hike a ways in this mind,
A cold and roadless woodland
Scarred by random burns and bits

Of disconnected data
Still fluttering from black sticks.
Why would you want to visit?
For tigers? The strangest finds.