You pass on a hill,
                   grazing the flock who, heads down,
                   trust even now the cloverleaf:
                   they would see a sign before they
                   shift from the clutch
                   of visors keeping out the sun.

                   Roman-nosed junkmen
                   puncture your tired carcass,
                   deflated by nails on the crossroads;
                   shepherd's purse and spina christi
                   hang on your bent headlight still aglow.

                   Your remains, cracked like an egg
                   in the din of the junkyard,
                   arise as three lights in one signal;
                   straight as a shepherd's crook you flash:
                   Amber, Red, and Holly Green.
x