coiling from sunk-in mattresses where dew
and rain have rosetted the stitching with mildew.
Inland seagulls hector with their wings
a strew of rinds and punctured bags. Beyond
the reeking mounds, bulldozers have smoothed the soil
over the sodden diapers and glittering foil
so that, as though some conjurer waved his wand
above a flat expanse of dust, you see
a little island looming at the edge
of vision: hairline of seedling grass, a ridge
with here and there a haggard maple tree,
the burlapped roots buried in beds of peat.
That place where Yeats thought all the ladders start?
At the heaps, a man steers a wobbly shopping cart
and throws in a pair of wing-tipped shoes, a sheet
of Visqueen, and what might be a megaphone
Creech references W.B Yeats' poem “The Circus Animals' Desertion.” 
 I must lie down where all the ladders start, In the foul rag-and-bone shop of my heart. 
 The poem is about Yeats' struggle to find contentment so I think that Creech questions the “happiness” that buying nice things brings. 
 So essentially no, the ladders don’t start there.
Landfill