The Tree Cutters Poem by Leslie Philibert

Roadside tress falling to the bottom of the sea,
orange moonmen with profiles of edges and plastic
buzz like angry bees, so I crouch in
the middle of the earth, lost to green

under the forest, under moss, behind roots
but having small stones thrown into my eyes
am unable to look upwards
standing ashamed in my fern grave as

trucks rumble past, even a massacre of pigs
would leave them unconcerned, runed,
coloured with the names of strange places,
edges of towns alongside sand and gravel

and the radio in my car lights green,
fighting to regain sanity, helpless,
all meaning filtering down to a pulse,
reason is sick this morning, a lost voice.