It is night,
and tires scream neath the silver green
out on Treetop Drive

where Zen is polluted
with scripts of conversion and sorrow
gives rise to song;

where starlit stones glint
cancerous; where what echoes
does not disturb;

where the names of gods are as meals
that feed nothing but hunger
and truth fails;

where beauty is an animal cut
in the pause of reflection; where Death
the homunculus of soul--

It is night,
and fires stream over the slivered green
out on Treetop Drive.