In Throne of Blood — if you’ve seen it, you won’t forget — the tall growth of Cobweb Forest is sawed down to new ends, camouflage for soldiers of an avenging army on the march. The sad image is threshing fir and pine needles that shield warriors advancing to unseat a despot who is flummoxed by presentiment. 
Ontologically, a wild deed like rewriting poems is complemented by an autocracy of attitude toward the occasion; the autocrat and scribbler combine as a sawtooth. Standing by and looking on — face it, I’m prone to passive aggression — stunted, I limp off scowling to the deforested haze of profuse misses in experience and dulled lightness of touch.