Where the most beautiful
horsechestnut held up deep branches
in a cathedral
full of wings and voices
and a golden light,
and the tall, rose-white flowers
smelled like the bread of heaven,
and eyes praised upraised,
being blest by seeing:
where the tree was
the air’s empty.
The insatiable vacuum
of a mean fear
in envy of that strength,
that lively age,
sucked there.
Destruction, the old man raged,
give me destruction!
And he got what he wanted.
Trees are so dirty,
the lady said.
The birds make the car
so dirty. All fall
I have to sweep the sidewalk.
Five fingers
has the chestnut hand,
loosely holding
candles, conkers,
sunlight, twilight,
and letting them fall.
They cut off the giant branches
first, then sawed rounds
from the top down the trunk
to the stump. Can’t let it fall.
So saw off the fingers,
then wrists and ankles,
then knees and elbows,
then hips and shoulders,
so that nobody
gets hurt.
Then poison the enormous
stump, that keeps on trying
to send up shoots.
Hack at the roots
and finally pull it
like a huge tooth.
The broken wood
was sweet and white.
People kept coming by,
slowing down in cars,
stopping walking, to stare.
Nothing there.
No fall,
all fall.
All clean.
All bare.
Only the tall,
tree-shaped, empty,
aching air.