From "The Ardent Forest"

Asleep in violence. Through my mother's

branches, havoc hurtles. Solar treasures

vault to visages

of pyre and prey that, caged

in aviaries of their rage, for mate

and youth and food, now wait.

Upon the boughs, their iron throats have learned,

while the body burned:

to sing hosannas; count

the hours; build the seemly nest; recount

the iron act in rime;

to mime the fires of the sun; to dream.

To dream the habit of

the grove, the walks of love-

within the ardent wood. But hear the beating

boughs amok, but smell the scorching wings!