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The Chainsaw (47)
Gentle, where the chainsaw Gouges the bark, Throwing thick chips, Ripping life asunder. I work in the cool December light To clear the year. Saplings sprung from pasture, So much life! There’s Nothing somnolent about The saw, no effete snoring, This hungry, smoking bastard. I grip it tenderly, Felling a black cherry, A box elder