A giant hole punch is clipping holes in the road, in the trees and in the sky. It is taking huge bites out of the countryside. The round, even holes form a row going up the tree trunks, along the tarmac and up above, in between the clouds.

Maybe I could thread string tags through each pair of holes? Then I could put the landscape into a folder.

Holes are punching along my arms now; they are red, they are bleeding. The hole punch has become an offensive weapon . Like so many other people, I find it more offensive when it chops me up than when it damages the natural environment.

Holes are punched in my face, in a pigeon’s wing, in a swan’s neck. The hole punch must be stopped. It has come to life, come to punch holes in life. We must kill it. We must knock it over on its side and crush it.

Punch, punch, punch, click! It stops to empty out the pieces in the paper tray. Quick, while it’s emptying, drop a sack on it from above.

The hole punch struggles, jumping and lifting the sack. Is hessian strong enough to hold it, when it can bite into tree trunks? Crush it now, with something strong and metallic, like a bulldozer. Kill it.