sometimes, they write themselves

1/7/06

awash in a frothy spit of trees; fir needles
and in this tornado I’m the only animal
only thing alive
and the branches as they snap they do make a noise
like the squeal of swine within; but no-one
hears that
from me
only the natural woodsnap proper for this place
a crack in the air
dry
like a whip upon my back
dry
like
everything so
parched
dry
like a powder-keg
on a ship
to nowhere
straining at its bindings ready to explode, but it can’t
for I’m the only one here
who can wield the flint