Tree sap 
crying down 
stumps condensed 
the atmosphere of iron: 
stillness of half-execution. 


The ground sweetened too 
that afternoon as Diana slew 
her watcher. 
When even the gross dog Pamphagos, 
licking and gabbling, 
couldn’t taste the sugar 
of tears wept 
in trembling youth. 


Each drop exuded 
from flesh or xylem 
is weighted somehow. 
Meanwhile, the air is chronicling 
all forest-deaths, 
felled at the same command - 
a record 
indelible as tree rings. 


History makes cuts graver 
and darkens the syrup bled. 


Bitter visions 
come unbidden 
as I pass this clearing 
on the train, thinking of the dead.