In afternoon’s sad light
the axe falls –
then I hear it
chop.
I see it rise
and I see it fall –
then I hear it
chop.
Does the axeman smell resin on the air?
He is too distant for me to know.
I sense the heft and shock of haft on hand,
only because I too have put axe to wood.
The axeman’s shapely woman
pedals by on a bicycle.
I imagine licking the salty sweat from her nape,
because of her shape.
Slanting light glints on turning wheels;
the spokes blur in my slow eyes.
The axe rises and falls –
then I hear the
chop.
I fear the axeman and his axe,
but I know nothing of the future
of his axe
or her neck.
Rise,
fall,
(delay)
chop.
Sound is a tortoise to light’s hare.
I stand in the dying light,
senses pressed to perception’s narrow apertures,
feeling no more sapient
than my brother apes,
wondering whether wisdom is possible.