The Dark Angel[i] Slithering through the leadwort and scurvygrass[ii]; Stumbling on the stubble of a Saturday night binge, she mumbles a curse across the nettles’ needles A cross to cross across the green. She leans against the old stone wall munching on rhubarb from a rusty pail. The promise of a pie floats beyond the hills. The piper’s pipe rests on the edge of the well. A trace of tobacco rides the air. Yaowarat[iii], 2020 (In the Year of …