It is the destruction of the world
in our own lives that drive us
half insane, and more than half.
To destroy that which we were given
in trust: how will we bear it?
It is our own bodies that we give
to be broken, our bodies
existing before and after us
in clod and cloud, worm and tree
that we, driving or driven, despise
in our haste to die, our country
spent in shiny cars speeding
to junk. To have lost, wantonly,
the ancient forests, the vast grasslands
is our madness, the presence
in our very bodies of our grief.