Not the peace of a cease-fire
Not even the vision of the wolf and the lamb
But rather
As in the heart when the excitement is over
And you can talk only about a great weariness
I know that I know how to kill
That makes me an adult
And my son plays with a toy gun that knows
How to open and close its eyes and say Mama
A peace
Without the big noise of beating swords into ploughshares
Without words, without
The thud of the heavy rubber stamp: let it be
Light, floating, like lazy white foam
A little rest for the wounds—
Who speaks of healing?
(And the howl of the orphans is passed from one generation
To the next, as in a relay race
The baton never falls.)

Let it come
Like wildflowers
Suddenly, because the field
Must have it: wildpeace