Hunters
When they stop walking in the forest,
The hunters begin to hunt for the deer.
They know without seeing that silence is camo,
Its cover thinner than the soft skin
Of their invisible, crepe paper blind₁,
And that it has a comfy center
In which they can sit.
It is not that they want to track,
Only to come as close to craziness
As anyone who is still hunting,
Walk through the brush quickly enough,
Pull open the leaves just in time.
They want to taste one tasty steak
From the bitter world that grows
Among the crazy, ignorant people.
Years later they will receive thanks from you
There was a time when you almost crashed
In the car that flies backwards,
The one that stop the animal killer comments,
They will receive from you as great fully as they can.
