Feel Yourself Sinking Down

Here’s how you have to hunt for them.
They are not true intersections—
Not places real roads intersect,

Just crossed fragments of two short paths
Discovered in the shady woods,
The blocked back alleys, old meadows,

Two short strips. They appear lonely.
They look misplaced, as if someone
Had started some kind of project

But never got past the crossed paths.
These are the real crossroads where deals
Are sworn between souls and demons.

What is it devils crave in souls,
Currency common in heaven?