Dead trees, dead trees
They crack under your feet like babies' bones
You never know where you're going 'till you're home
There's a bumper in the woods, there's a body in the ground
There's a lonely girl, singing a song that she found
A military concubine
aeortas leaking time

A maskéd anarchist creeps in
haunts corners of her tired theology
A flimsy steel rapport, creaking from misuse
melts into the mire of the crags
Still, apathetic, piercing tines
lept upwards at the paleolithic close
and since have swam in adjectives
They held, and hold, and hold

Thus every time she tries to murder him, her ghost
He rears his face where she expects him not
An eager spirit rising up in wax men
giving life to John Procter, Salem hero of 1692
breathing words to resting ears as brutus
And riding across the landscape of dreams unmasked
uncloaked, unabashed, and achingly lovely
so she feels the wind on her lips as she wakes