I cannot write tragic poetry any more.

It is as though I were in a forest

—or so I imagine, my acquaintance with forests being so slight—

And I thought it was a Belle-Dame-Sans-Merci sort of place

But then the sun shone somewhere and— lo and behold!

It's all winking lights and accommodating shadows after all.

Well, perhaps not that sunny. The ground is squishy and

There are glass shards dotting the slope where people

Used the place in accord with how dark it had seemed,

Making it darker. I sigh in irony, which itself is overdone.

If we deal in malobservations and miscommunications—

Which we do—we are likely to find that trees are best kept

To a certain height, age, density; their gatherings limited

To five or more in a public place, their branches trimmed,

Undergrowth regularly cleared, all in the interest that 

People will use them right. 

And of course, with an arrogance I can fairly appropriate to our lot,

We—that is to say, I—draw analogies where every damn thing stands for human.