The chainsaw men speak into embers and convey machines from place to place: The pistons driving hydraulics, the slip couplings and the pulleys. The pulverizers that carve slipshod topography. The regulators gaze through spicy Djarum smoke at the secret life of a forest, where the small branches rest and the tree is removed of its weight. I’ve been here before. And I’ve walked this field in borrowed muck boots, and shut the door and silenced the latch. I’ve put the names inside the dresser. I’ve woven the names into my hair. I swing them until they shatter. I line the driveway with the names each spring. I char them and mix them with dirt to feed the roses. |
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