The Sentence

I'm writing on paper....
devouring trees.

Newspaper I read,

scavenging
scraps of information,
I throw it down,
pick up another,

Sit on my oak chair, at my ash table...

Wood,
so beautiful,
it's bones laid bare.

Many times I have killed trees as they spoke,
they never finished their sentence,
and I'm reading this sentence.

Maybe I can write smaller,
use it again,

Maybe I can burn a log slower,

or put it out with white bleach poisoned water.

I can sit on a stump
in a vast plain of tree-bones,
no shade in sight,

only a spectre.

from "A Voice of Dissent"
-C. Taylor