On backroads in Kansas,
past the dark glowworm trails
a radish-man lies
telling stories of Oz
He holds mustard-dipped gravel
to tell of the by-ways
he spins like a cyclone
of locution and bywords
moving nothing but lips
In the hole where they grew him
lay devotions and spirits
that fled his corrupt house
when Azazel walked in…
Now he speaks of the poppies
now the burden of sleep
and strings yarn like a spindle.
As our consciences prick
our lips almost purse…
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