Sow my way through this black market, gun-dry; face bold
as blackest soot; frozen by talk of a crisp moon-
beam in a siren cult of breeders bearing fruit:
the angels of this hour are little what they seem.
I wander through its open stalls in half-a-dream
picking ‘cross aisles, a wetted sepulchre. Writhing
up the bottled alleys where cold eyes arrest me
and tempt me from my reverie; small, plush and dying.
The hour is late and would be called witching I say
if it were mottled hags who lined my green as gay
as their evil is long; but this coven is still.
Blinding the night with their indifference, I marvel
at the stony-faced beauty of the pack; carved in
rock as faces round a ouija - “Whose? Whose time shall I