Eighteen years since Clayoquot Sound
Today the trees keep falling
Inky tears drip on the page
A pulpy sheet for writing
More organic, they exhort me
Grow your words like corn stalks
But I press them out precise
Planed and stacked like lumber
i’d throw a wrench
drive a spike
fill the gas tank with sand
if i knew how
or where
after that what would i write on?
the water?
the morning dew?
the snow?
maybe i’d fling my words to the wind
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