of a savior
then i come to a place
where the sky is always empty
and trees are wrung like rags
from the wind
the earth sweats only the scent
of warm dead weeds and dry wood
water waits in little rock basins
lined with pale green lichen
bare grey scrub oak crowds
over the hillsides like the thorns around
sleeping beauty’s castle
where for her foolishness
she is left to the mercy
of a savior
(The Crucible, #16)
