Before the altar, we pray
To gods of the forest-night
They hear us in our anguish
Remove us from televised carnage
And mass murder of dreams
In America, nothing is as it seems
We trek to the forest at nightfall
By light of neon and longing
It smells of fire-smoke and dust
You forget there are places like this:
A quiet bay with still water and a wide expanse,
the sun shining in a cloudless blue sky, and
seagulls calling overhead.
From the sandy shore, you watch the old man
cast a fishing net and the teenagers lounging
with headphones on.