The Craft of Poetry: A Primer in Verse, by Lucy Newlyn. For Now, by Eileen Myles (book review)

There are two ways to fell a tree. One is, perhaps, instinctive, if not simply logical: measure and plan carefully, apply your saw, stand back, and watch it come down. If everything goes to plan, no one will remark on your work and the job will be quietly finished. The only trace of your presence in the process will be a stump and some useful lumber. The other (far less efficient) method is to strike it with lightning. In that case, you will need a species of luck borne from the mysteries of physics, as the negative and positive ions between the atmosphere and the tree engage in a complex negotiation until conditions are just right, and then, your tree will explode in a burst of sizzling light. If you are fortunate enough to catch it in the moment, there will be an incandescent blaze, too fast to register, but the result will be a charred and jagged remnant, and very little else of value. But you won’t forget the way that tree came down.