Flies on the outside of my garbage bag, my dismembered, sweet sickness inside, a canopy snake crawls over the leg bone, purge fluid and blue lips, rigor mortis like the stillborn abominations in unmarked graves past the illuminated Chapel on Green Street, cold as the winter's fang outside, optimistic faces looking for mushrooms, find a trail of broken teeth and a missing rib bone, find me next to blood moss and some blood root, an old, dying, half-orange tree stump, something pious squirrels use as a pulpit to preach their infernal gospel to the curious forest eyes.