They
Donald Finkel (1929- )
are at the end of our street now cutting down trees
a scream like a seven foot locust
they have cut off another
neatly at the pavement
never again will the pin-oak threaten a taxi
will the ash lie in wait to fall on a child
it is a good time for this
the sun is bright
the plane has only just begun
to sprout little shoots from under her fingernails
never again will she dance
her terrible saraband in the tornado
the sweet gum trembles
bristling with tiny mines like brown sea urchins
never again will he drop them on the walk
to menace the sensible shoes of mailman
they have broght a machine that eats trees
and shits sawdust
they cut off limbs to feed it
snarling it chews the pale green fingers of the plane
the pin-oak's winkled elbows and knees
they fill truck after truck with the dust
in the schoolyard now they are cutting down the children
I hear their screams
first at the ankles
it is nothing then to sever
their soles from the asphalt
there is no danger their falling
on the school and crushing it
I have invented a machine that shoots words
I type faster and faster
I cannot keep up with them
in front of the house now they are cutting the rosebush
vainly she scratches their hands like a drowning kitten
they are cutting the grass
scythes in their wheels they race over our lawn
flashing in the sun like the chariots of the barbarians
the grass blades huddle whimpering
there is no place to go
it is spring and the street is alive
with the clamor of motors
the laughter of saws
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◆ From: 163.26.52.130
※ 編輯: PowLluimniz 來自: 163.26.52.130 (05/08 11:28)
※ 編輯: PowLluimniz 來自: 163.26.52.130 (05/15 09:45)