Fumigator

If the squeeze is made of stars
And the stars are first required
To breech a horizon of pines
And turkey calls, then the swish
Smoke from wet wood will
Knuckle into the living room
Of some far off alien life form

Enriched by the enterprise
Of someone needlepointing
A map of chaos, some bleary
Eyed grandma coerced by
Angels and fumigation chemicals
To rescind her ancient denial
Of the devil and his Cadillac
And make a spread sheet
Out of yarn to march us one
And all back into the fields

Where the guards will set us free.