Dave Bonta's three-line poem feels like a fragment of a cold, strange myth. Men in cloaks are made to undress, and the order comes from "the crow people," a phrase that suggests scavengers who feed on death. Taking off the cloaks reads as a loss of protection, rank or disguise.
The second line speaks of "an ill usage of land" that the crow people "neither heard nor saw." That could mean they ignore the damage done to the earth, or that the harm happened out of their sight. The poem doesn't say which, and the uncertainty adds to the unease.
The last line is the oddest: "their sick kissing unmissing the plague." The made-up word "unmissing" seems to mean the plague is never absent, or never missed. Kissing, usually tender, becomes a way of spreading illness. The speaker doesn't openly show feeling, but the mood is bleak, ominous and detached, like watching a ritual of punishment or contagion from a distance.