In the burning lands,
cradling the failure of the body,
plumes dancing on the oiled horizon,
wood standing that the hands of death haven't reached,
maggots coiled in the footprints that have filled with cowardly blood,
rotten eyes slit by falling bark,
angles of ripped hair exploding from a mountain peak
at the end of a field's length
rolled by steel and steam
mating with dark water,
green stalks shivering through
the stigmata of a dead hand.