The cart’s wheels,
Caked with muck,
Crunch over limbs
That snap like bones.
The devil-whores
Keen and wail
At the very sight
Of the sacred rood.
We herd them in, and
the examinations begin.
Some float.
Some don’t.
The red-tressed one,
With the cat scratches
Across her vile back?
She burned quite blue.
Afterwards, life resumed.
We planted by the moon,
And could hide in the corn,
Which rose like dying curses.
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