Old Joe sits by the lantern
They lie underneath
The swinging light back and forth
Back and forth
Casts a shadow growing and shrinking
Where the knife enters the body
a cross mark provides the target
Where the wheezing and bleeding can be
contained, his little black box
A long dark shadow helps him to not remember
Old Joe knows he has a history
He arranges empty matchboxes as gravestones
Every year one more is added to his
Sacred collection
each casting a darkness on his blank visage