By Jem Morgenstern
Roaches settle under milkweed patterned floors
Summer sets on churning bodies, wilting
daisies nestle on garden stones
Wooden homes along dirt roads, stretching
only from the one-eyed man's home
to the farthest point his eye spies
Quiet folk keen on speaking with pointed eyes
and locking their doors before the gloam
To the well, they do not send their children fetching
or else the beast will chew their bones
Passerbys' screams keep mother from her quilting
and the locks stay on the doors
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