No. 170

Like the gazelle, I will spring with joy at sound of your march.

I will corral about the greatest of trees.

I will harrow your soil of all its seeds and fall with sorrow at the site of your fruits.

I will inhale your breath and eat the flesh off your roots.

I will lie still for the blood on my fur, feeding the flies off of the caruncle division of my black beaded eye.

Like the gazelle, I will stare, beyond the closures of your inferno.