A Place In Our Time.

5:30am; the air humid and syrupy,
axe and teeth bite at gnarled
stumps, fracturing wood
and splintering the floor.
Alexandre’s feet blush,
seeping titian sap onto
smatterings of leaves
and debris; as he wipes
away the perspiration,
feeling sand and grit melt
into the back of his hand.

The floor starved of light
and dark from fallen droplets
is smacked with sun and dust
when the tree-line crashes.
Capuchin cries and the panicked
mourn of Parrots jar through
the fragments and flakes of
falling life.

Two-Hundred year old skyscrapers,
jungle custodians: plummet.
Vines and bones snap as
the trees are yanked horizontal.

Machinery jams; overloaded
with tree and bark; nests and homes,
expelling grains of forest that cover
the floor.


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