Opposite the clearing from their entrance, a swath of old growth reduced by burning to husks, this clutch of trees gutted to molder — trees so closely grown, so barren and yet so near and twined, they’re one, as if splinters of the Great Tree, destroyed in the first lightning on the third day of Creation. In the midst of this burnt, wasteheaps, dumped, irradiated, who knows, and you really want to take chances, on trashcans municipal issue from any last Administration, overflowing a grossgummy slurry; above, plastics clinging to ashen branches as if shrouds for ghosts, windingsheets of wind; further: a huddle of wrecked hulls, the chassis of antique cars, junk without tires, up on their gas canisters and cinderblocks for repairs only the dead could perform; a disastrous prop aeroplane lost out of Newark, its propeller smashed, tail-twisted — blame a hurricane named the same as your mother, during which you, my boychick, were conceived; what else, the forest floor: a slippery and fall patching of kitsch novelty postcards once postmarked Atlantic City, lost on their summery ways to grandkinder residing northward in zips 10somethingsomethingother; rotors ripped from defunct telephones, discs gusted to roll edges across the scathed ground; dead AA alkalines, 9volts, spent bullet casings; a clutch of umbrellas, more metal spokes than holed fabric, tumbling around the trunks of trees, picking up radiosignals — foreign and maybe even extraterrestrial, yet outdated, old news of it all — amid screeches scratched on the exposed reticulations of roots; snakespidering a tunnelling web westerly and south toward this tree spanned wide of mysterious metal, its unpainted, autumnally oxidized leaves forming a mottled netting that, upon later inspection, are only odd, interrupted sections of fencing, makeshift and weathered, rusted, breaking here and intermittently there over ravine and ridge, piles and all midden manner of natural swell, the compost of stray cats, the ruin of paper mills, turbine, grist and furnace remains: a fence strung high and taut with barbedwire, tightly coiled to threaten, too, the wires that’ve flurred loose from Parkway’s edge, just further a wave, a thumb out and flag down — powerlines screaming their shadows, torching ponds of stray gas to flame, guttering at trunks of all root sunken with nothing left ringing above them to burn, no soul left to become ash, air, damning sky…
Benjamin, though…He hadn’t wandered as much as hurled, vomited Himself atop the mess and slithering over, to wriggle with the wind, with the treewind, the dogwind, Godwind geschwind, that of every quarter then against them, too, winds from all opposite fronts that make for this perpetual weather: unopposably gloomy, grave; maneuvering Himself stomached, roly-poled, scraping the clothes from His body, the skin. Unharmed upon reaching the clearing He continues through it, not to the right, and yet neither to the left, as it’s been argued by those who’d wish to forget this Joysey sojourn out of shame, but straight on, directly into the woods further burnt, immediately upon entering which His tshirt’s tail, used to patch the seats of His multiple pants, gets snagged, He rips, it tears; the mend says in white type bolded on blue:
