we sit by a broken spindle on the bare stone floor of a strange subterranean room, listening for the husking of corn.
outside a dawn of frost gathers, tense on the sill. a grey face presses against the panes - glistening cold wet.
across the dead earth all falls to negative. slick fire rises, fed with dried plants.
a veiled, moonwhite figure walks the roads at night. hours and hours: a dead woman looking for dead things.
she waits in the black, softly hisses our names under the door. locusts crawl from beneath her feet. her hair of long white snakes tangles in the branches, slick with night. swinging heavily from the tree outside the window.
candlewax falls like pools of semen to her feet to the cold ground,
the shadow moves across the far wall of the room - back & forth slowly like a pendulum calling seconds.
we lean like a necklace of bone over the dark wet road shedding bark & water.
her scythes feed on skies & waters. our blood floods the roadways,
the moon is a looking glass. falling, slick with the cool grease of stars.