THE FOREST
next year they will be marked
again with circles of paint
like numbers tattooed on wrists
waiting for the train.
The conversation of the trees
is now stunted--
a stricken, amazed
silence echoes.
The caretakers count
their 30 pieces of silver.
The loggers count their
board-feet and drink another beer
It's not the whole poem, but I thought it was beautiful.