Rainforest

I close my eyes so that I can see it. What we so freely eliminate. Who is not guilty of it? We reek of paper. Everywhere we go is paper. Our hands are stained with paper. Walls. What echoes from our walls. The sweet whisper of rainforest— even the name makes the sound of rushing water or perhaps it’s a ghost that haunts us. They say the dead that did not die a peaceful death are doomed forever to wander the earth. But perhaps this earth is for them already a cemetery—stacks and stacks of flesh on a desk. Which one belongs to which tree? Already, we’ve traded oxygen for so much.