Poem

How long would it take to grow

an Eastern White Oak

eighty feet tall in your own

backyard? And how long

might it take to burn one

all the way down? Could you

shoot that on your phone

and let your battery run down

until the ash at your feet is

cool to touch? Even now, I can

feel grubs tunneling under

their own bark, can feel birds

I cannot name settling in

their branches so high up

they feel like someone else’s

idea of a good time. The sun

is hiding behind a scrim

of orangey particulate matter

drifting down from Halifax—

Skullcandy earbuds in

my ears as I pump away on

my Peloton with all windows

shut, my middle-age bodymass

index the best it has been

in years. Feels so good to

cycle through virtual woods

unkissed by flames, countless

flocks of CGI birds and songs

all at my command! Am I

not a bronzed god riding off

into a pixilated sunset of my

own making? Don’t worry.

I got this. No harm will come

to you unless it passes through

me first. Don’t even think

I don’t know how the hairs on

your head are numbered like

all the days I have already

lost count of, my phone on

silent mode. It’s enough

to let each acorn tell us what

it’s like to return to the dark

from where we all emerged—