Shafts of pathway breaking the night.
Human toys lost in the woods glowing.
Logging roads blocked by dead machines and live bodies.
Plows passing that have scraped bone.
The weaponry in rolled-up eyes
increasing its gushing glue
minute by second.

Even for the thrill of safety,
I don't want to live under a man-made sky.
These skating apparitions and slanting trees
will join me in the highways of the whirlpool
trading flesh for my impact crater's child,
wild of luxuries that have left their mark.