A man with two chainsaws appeared at my window;
they hung from his hips, running, ready to swing.

I recently cut down a tree, but in the homosexual manner;
clipping each twig and laying them straight,

holding the large branches in my arms, breaking
in the factual way that bodies break.

My flying cowboy, my feller, was surprised to discover
me in my nighty, a pencil in my mouth. The cat began

yowling, to whom I said Please, I am trying to read
a quite difficult book. The man gestured as if to say:

What? I mouthed back: This isn’t about you. His chainsaws
were chatty and clean. I made notes in the margins:

there’s a scurry of leaves in his arms like a cradle,
are his limbs really branches or chainsaws? then

his ascent, kicking off from the trunk, going anywhere
upwards, an Autumn in a train behind him.

I make pencil on the page, this character
is gay, notice must be given to the occupant.