You are a small shape of death crouched among leaves.
The twist of your red mouth is the torque of poison.
Tangle of leaves, spill of leaves, slow rot of leaves. . .
Misery, ruin, iniquity. You are the scuffling thing in dry grass.
At first you didn't know me.
I was a shape moving rapidly, nervous
at the edge of your vision. A flat, high voice,