TV of Sun

to our creator. Only if he exists
could this be tragic. Otherwise
aggression, possession arise together

and love’s a wild, unknown diary
like the world behind a screen.
Light projects it. The trees too

watch the TV of sun.
We can’t straighten them.
Anyway we have only images

of trees—the cameramen risking their lives
among them, in the midst of the shooting.
They too are fascinated by death—the trees—

in which they’re trying to believe, to
reconcile with tree-nightmares of surviving:
appearing so inhuman, outsized

though success is measured by size. Then there’s cost.
Our trees must be consumed, as the sun is,
cut down—but saved

by beings who live to read
climbing dutifully toward other stars,
the odor of trees left behind—

which made us breathe, as do stars
which make us recreate the world
with memory, with the unknown cameramen.