Two rain-toughed slabs, set as sockets
for gibbets, asked to summon
just enough sky to swing a man
in snow and din, in breath made mist.
The gallows gone, the blocks remain
because nothing loves death like stone.
Soaked in streetlights, moon brine,
jutting out from double yellow lines.
Two worn trapdoors, frost-wracked tablets
that might be the first lopsided squares
of a hopscotch course, urging feet
to test themselves upon the past.
