Imprinting the previously Unprinted woods, a philosopher breaks The thin fibers of a spider's web. Spinney club moss Carpets the understory Of the ancient forest. Ferns unfurl To their fullest. White trillium And pink lady slippers embody a scent Of abstract perfume. The philospher reaches the last Wooden plank laid across mud by a human hand. Rotten wood sinks. The philospher leaps Into the applause Of a forest of gloves.
Condemn the chair to death Blindfold it Point a gun at its head Take aim Don't shoot Untie the blindfold Tell the chair its free to go.Anne Zuckerman