The Fabulanarchist Luxury Uprising By Jack Houston
At a point as high as the lowest rib
of a tall man, perhaps heart-height
on someone smaller, the tree trunk’s cut,
its branches, limbs carried off.
Levelled by chainsaw,
the honey-gold circumference of its centre
now the smooth top of an organic monolith
set by the side of a path in the park.
Walking past, I realise I don’t remember
there being a tree there.
– ‘Elegy for Myself’
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