chainsawing

The rattling bite runs up one's arm 
in shaken blood and nervous swarm,
but skin stays whole, and mind controlled
as every balanced aim unfolds in total cold
and pulsing flesh. So easily, could be
such mess. A knee sawn off, a finger
strewn. A gap to spray - please give it
room! I almost feel the need of fail.
Of injury - as wood resists, I swing
hard flail, press push to it where
calculated force has bit, and hushed
its rasp, and forced it through. So splintered
tender greens and shoots sprout blistering
from limbs and roots! Still trying to 
remember calm, and do. In just about
desired strokes,

I make the harsh sense I intend

of this minuscule wilderness. In majuscule,
my will is writ and bent. Thus some demented
artist (me) makes bold: improve upon a tree.
I hate this kind of hubris, folks. I warp 
and weft and wend in brutal strokes. 

And yet as if it weren't distaste, stand back.
My hopes so won, so disappointed. Spent.
Upon such waste of wood and leaf so fallen
now. So empty now, in front of it. This task 
behind, I have made fit.

And proud, and trembling like a leaf. I have 
had done. It's some relief. Contemptibly,
I'm proud of it. 

It feels no less than permanent.