13

Tongues of fire trip, drip truth
That floats like red leaves.
Liquid in the garden, thieves in the valley
And the scream of the organist
That wavers, chokes, and dies.
Two hands under the spotlight,
Signing deeds for dead trees, cattle tracks
Bent backs, steps and strain. Cold rain
That accuses quietly and starts to hiss
Lips kiss a gale, your mother lies
In dire ditches, flames in her eyes.
One, the son, cries and knows
There's nothing to be done.