Everything that would enable Identification had been eaten. Light and water had done Their diligent duty, aided by Ants, termites and maggots.

The first to leave were The leaves, with their long Gossipy tongues.

Branches fell out next Jousting with their old enemy Wind - of thought and feeling.

The trunk beached across a path Deep in the forest, crossed ocassionally By human feet and dog piss,

As it lay bleaching, till it finally Burst open one summer evening Exposing its autobiography to the sky.

Years have gnawed at what remained, Patiently and obsessively consuming Bark, fibre, wood chip and root Till this wound - that I carry home As if it were a poem I read in the subway - Alone remained, exposed, waiting to be found.