When building the highway:
Route 84
a strip of woodland should be left untouched.
between
the east and westbound lanes,
so that little boys can peer out the windows
of navy Volvos,
through the dark fog of leaves,
and glimpse angry headlights on the other side,
rushing the wrong way.
And they can see renegade deer,
trying to escape
from the suffocating sliver of forest
extending eternally,
barred on both sides with
death,
looking in on them
like they are figures in a hellish diorama.
They teeter on a grassy line
between
a green prison and a constant barrage
of 80 mile-per-hour bullets.
Caught in the icy headlights of August nights, 
screaming with silent brown eyes,
Bambi-like.
Then let the boy see carcasses,
stinking, snarling, flesh,
dotting the pavement,
little fragments
ripped from a coffee-stained rug of depravity,
All yellow and ragged,
All hollow and still,
Flies glued on
like cheap black beads.
The life and death around it,
closing in,
show it to the boy
to make him learn.
Everything is like this.
He must learn to scream,
noiselessly,
with his eyes.