If the moon is not dragged through night by dogs...

There is a stain on the wall — Malbec...

Down at the crossing, under an orange August moon, I hear them...

To become darkness, to blacken as nightfall grays the room...

A sloth hangs in the murk of a kapok tree...

Hear me, O Lord! Lord of woods and gullies, Lord of dim and root...

Some prime trauma turns this thing...