A Ravening
The land suffers too much greening;
luxuriance froths to fever and glut,
birds cannot consume all the insects,
nor serpents eat the thronging flocks.
The soil hogs on the swill of decay,
drey and burrow are ovens
for a prowling pestilence.
There is no softness. The sun
bites the bloated and rancid,
a balance is tipped off kilter,
the climate repaints its face
more garish each day.
A little poverty is needed, a tax
on the riotous and abundant,
the sickly succulence of ripe sap
be drained and clarified.
We live now in the eyes of strangers,
hunters are maddened by the gnawing
of long fevered bones.
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