the earth will deliver a long and timeless death
 to the hunter, return to his oiled gun, and 
 the deer, return to the leaves, and
 the leaves, return to the dirt,
 urgent under this torturous moon,
 all of these boots encrusted with mud,
 urgent again under these torturous stars, 
 fifteen years of crying, fifteen
 years of drudging through this slick mud,
 for the hunter, fifteen years of killing,
 and fifteen hundred of slow death,
 deliver back into the wood, deliver
 this to hang back from the tree, open
 and deliver cold dirt onto my living heart.