They Donald Finkel (1929- ) are at the end of our street now cutting down trees a scream like a seven foot locust they have cut off another neatly at the pavement never again will the pin-oak threaten a taxi will the ash lie in wait to fall on a child it is a good time for this the sun is bright the plane has only just begun to sprout little shoots from under her fingernails never again will she dance her terrible saraband in the tornado the sweet gum trembles bristling with tiny mines like brown sea urchins never again will he drop them on the walk to menace the sensible shoes of mailman they have broght a machine that eats trees and shits sawdust they cut off limbs to feed it snarling it chews the pale green fingers of the plane the pin-oak's winkled elbows and knees they fill truck after truck with the dust in the schoolyard now they are cutting down the children I hear their screams first at the ankles it is nothing then to sever their soles from the asphalt there is no danger their falling on the school and crushing it I have invented a machine that shoots words I type faster and faster I cannot keep up with them in front of the house now they are cutting the rosebush vainly she scratches their hands like a drowning kitten they are cutting the grass scythes in their wheels they race over our lawn flashing in the sun like the chariots of the barbarians the grass blades huddle whimpering there is no place to go it is spring and the street is alive with the clamor of motors the laughter of saws

※ 發信站: 批踢踢實業坊(ptt.cc) ◆ From: 163.26.52.130 ※ 編輯: PowLluimniz 來自: 163.26.52.130 (05/08 11:28) ※ 編輯: PowLluimniz 來自: 163.26.52.130 (05/15 09:45)