Twelve they were, ’round Coffin’s Gate,
Heavy robed and with cowls drawn up
Against December’s icy blast.
Dead blossoms clasped to withered breasts,
Shuffling in counterclockwise motion,
Slowly they circled the pit around.
With pentagram drawn, nightshade spread,
And fairly outshouting the howling wind,
They chanted their invitation.
From out of the pit, riding a column of flame,
The thirteenth appears and joins the coven.
And now there are none.
An excerpt from “A Mixed Bag.”