The canebrake hums with threat.
The woods moan like a mother's loss
so that
the hunter can pierce the beast.
Oh, America, why do you
carry the weight of love on your antlers?
The arrow's tip
seeks the haunch.
All the bulk of a fine and portly day
is on your back, America.
Vainly but with such virgin charm,
you dance and dodge the final question.
Every glade waits to ambush you, America.
Every clearing is a dangerous place.
Oh, you fugitive of clover-
devotion and bruised apples—
the bowstring trembles.
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