in a field
he stands, his
feet in darkness, his dirty ragged
face dull with the
moon’s silver
light.
the festoonery of
rags is about
him,
each borrowed garment
with its story.
those eyes
he wears
are not blind
withal;
the empty sockets are
filled
with seeing.
last night there were
two in the
lane,
and he watched a dreadful
violation;
heard the terror
in her
voice,
saw
the sharp
blade
thrust in and
out; the moon’s
pale phosphorescence
flashing to and
fro.

and now
the long straw
hands
drip, drip, with
blood,
and the
grim gibbous
moon
looks down.