I found a note on the ground, the red ground.
It said: Infested. Corrupt.
The clay was heavy wet. I turned it over.
I found a note on the ground, stuck to the heavy ground.
It said: The swerve of small-town eyes.
The church was in Moundville, not far down the road.
I’d been there once.
We’d been there once. All that heat,
a vine from every shadow sick and stretching for the light.