Witness

Cicada krill raining down,  
a thin yellow line skims  
the swamp's horizon  
as you come to witness mine,  
 
where split end shanks  
float among the  
bloated racks of sinew  
in tangled roots of bayou,  
 
to lie down with the maggot  
the way a sweat bead crawls  
and tells of my sin  
while mosquitoes imbibe.  
 
I rail against temptation  
to drown the shrill whistle  
from the winding  
of an old church spire,  
 
as it's the only place left  
befitting to take shelter  
with brethren reading o'er me  
under a slow moon rising.