I intend no disrespect to
poets of pleasant notions,
but those who praise
the forests peace
have not stared
long enough to know.

If God husbands
this wooded world,
He grows a garden of graves
and harvests ghosts.

The fear that shivers me
at the shriek of hunting hawks
is multiplied a million times
if a god is in the echo.

Where then do I seek this Peace
if not in woods or concrete,
nor in the slit eyes of my fellows?

Where but in that burning part of me
that is not consumed,
where They can dwell and cause
my soul to bend my knee.