Sunday.

There is no revenge even half as strong as the Light:

But there are surprises.

This one is hooded by the sour grace of compromise, by twilight hooded and in plain jeans, and

Fed on immigrant food.

The Curse digs its plots on our limelined

Field.  Tomorrow we arrive, the heat of memory a furnace blowing white.

Even the devil has a tender letter in his pocket in case he is found.  Or maybe, especially the devil has.