It's windy and the trees are saying,
get off, let me go. I read once
how a chainsaw in such a forest
passed irrationally through wood
and into someone's thigh. This was in
a poem. The man recovered and after that

wore Kevlar chaps, as in
bulletproof vest. Everything Kevlar
would be good. A Kevlar life,
since your can't disengage
a lunatic Karma. The "H" not there
as it is in Dharma, to give you pause.
Any Karma, a hurdy-gurdy,
drone or burden turning,
strings that occasionally sing.

A car passes as I step out of
the forest. A dog's face is
at the window, dog breath on the air.
You change. That means, to let go
of who you are. I hear starting up
the rev of insects at a roadkill,
the silent h.