You are a small shape of death crouched¹ among leaves.

    The twist of your red mouth is the torque of poison.

    Tangle² of leaves， spill of leaves， slow rot of leaves. . .

    Misery³， ruin， iniquity⁴. You are the scuffling thing in dry grass.

    Rodent⁵， snail⁶， the curly-legged spider， centipede， rat snake.

    I see you by the back-hooded barbecue in November， brooding

    like the smoke of burned meat. The fire in the coals gone out，

    the sun hung low and weak in smoldering⁷ sky， cold

    breath of winter. You are all smoke breath， grief， and conniving⁸.

    You are the alien thing invading my garden， a haunt， a plague，

    lurking⁹ beyond light and warmth， there in the shadows wearing

    death inside out， a curse on the sky. You are a spot， a flaw， a

    blotch¹⁰ and a stain on the world you corrupt¹¹ and I hate

    you and fear you and look for you everywhere with dread¹².