Eclipse ashes smudge the air
The four no longer breathe.
The earth is a sucking wound.
The earth is bud and bone.
What once was green is red.
What once was dead, aether.
“Some still say they are four.
I tell you there are but three,”
Says Lady Cobweb twisting —
Ganglions dangling from a slot.
She checks her own pulse — blood
Beats like tines on a crosscut saw,
Always anything but a waltz,
Erratic, and nobody's fault.
