On that night of snake hiss
and cicada click,

beyond the bristlecones
and the blackjack pines,

ghosts with no faces
and whiskey-soaked souls

came to this place.
Chains and whips

and veins of fire
staining the black earth red.

Can you feel it?
The way the air still thrashes

from the man’s struggling feet,
the hickory tree weeping

its burn of rope,
its blood-soaked bark.

The wind is a saw-blade,
a talon, a fang.

Leaves hold his last scream,
cry his final prayer,

drink sorrow
dripping from the moon.