Leaving him in pieces

He thought he would be a tree.

All feel the power of a tree.

A forest is a form of indifference

with its back to the city.

He’d be deep in the dead

centre of the heart of the wood;

turning sun into shade

and eggs into birds.

 

He thought he would be an axe.

Nobody fucks with an axe.

An axe is always lifted for a purpose:

wood-chopping or murder.

He’d be the handle and the head;

the head hurtling down dead

centre on the heart

of the wood

turning wholes

into pieces.

 

He’s wrong about

axes and trees:

he’s pieces.

 

Cut, nailed and planed:

into wheels and crosses

awaiting fire.

Brother Smoke.

Sister Ash.

All of him is split

offerings for

Mother Earth

and

Father

Sky