Trees and the like protrude so haphazardly,
and I don’t know if I can stand for it.
Axe and hatchet and saw and here we
go, to lumber-jacking. Sure to
clear the forest floor of everything
even remotely forested.
After all, we don’t have time
for all this touchy-feely shit,
and the deep green hues of the
high-top foliage only
makes to block the sun.
Or more usually in this season,
shades of gray.
You don’t know what it’s like
to have to clear-cut the woods
around your existential spaces.
You don’t know what it’s like,
but you will.