Where the wild things are.
Red Riding Hood. Imagine a child,
holding his grandmother's hand
watching his forest being
slowly cut down for houses.
Up high, the tree merchant sails
in his leather straps and pulleys
steering limbs, twirling branches,
hanging them upside down, dangling.
Little bits of the fe fi fo fum
giant who lived in the clouds
filter down with not so much as a stalk left.
Airy fairy stuff – sawdust
rains down in the blue.
"At least"
says the four-year-old, puzzling,
"at least it'll be
alive tonight."
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