Denise Newman Serious Faults How easily the fabric of goodness is disorganized uneasy chickens seeing wolf shapes everywhere those who were meant to fly and don’t live under a littler sky traveling on cruel inroads bumpy with hunger and misted over. In the devil’s cloak, in the angel’s knickers the black wing of the traveler on a carcass caressing the deed into oblivion, go on – silently rearranging a garden at night thistle, thorn, wild rose, radish mean life rising in the soil.