Wood, Paper, Plastic
This wood was a live poem in the wind
Some short summertime ago; still warm to know,
My rough hand feels its form, shyly
Bone to bone, grain to grain;
And this old grey log, splintered at the ends,
We split one quiet Sunday afternoon
To keep warm, breathing steam like careless gods
While families of insects fled in fear.
This paper, pulped and rolled, bleached of memories
Struggles to be a poem, in crisp folds,
Mingles with sour sweat
Passing from palm to palm;
Lighting beacons, fanning revolutions,
Tattooed with imprisoned thoughts,
And quietly dies on dusty shelves
As bright ambitions settle for a sigh.
This plastic lost its life
When a billion trees were sacrificed
For uncounted crushing years, and blandly resurrected
On the torture racks of science,
So that, perfect in form,
The fluted, glistening lamp stand at my elbow
Follows deathless orders from its maker in Changsha,
And can no longer whisper in the night.
Thor, 1999