The Fabulanarchist Luxury Uprising By Jack Houston

At a point as high as the lowest rib

of a tall man, perhaps heart-height

on someone smaller, the tree trunk’s cut,

its branches, limbs carried off.

Levelled by chainsaw,

the honey-gold circumference of its centre

now the smooth top of an organic monolith

set by the side of a path in the park.

Walking past, I realise I don’t remember

there being a tree there.

– ‘Elegy for Myself’