A poem by Will Burns.
His body fell
through the thickness
of the fir trees’ needles
breaking limbs along the way.
Dragging down
loose cones, shaking off dew.
It might have been
as long as nine days
and nights he hung,
one-eyed, like a god on his ash,
until the rope itself cut
through the rotten flesh
and sinewy cords of his neck.
There’s not much said,
only thought and memory,
the kid, his life’s work pending—
razing swathes of trees
with a chainsaw.