At Calvariae Locus, a few of scarecrows, standing decay.
A red line drawn I find, here, a woman killed.
Spiting blood, ringing lyrical, by a billystick.
Across the level crossing, waiting for, a kamaitachi is. Or, across the level crossing, waiting for, cut in the skin by whirlwind.
Demobilizing, the one-legged, the night he dances.