Night

Night. A man clears a border, throwing
Plucked weeds, broken-off twigs of shrubs
Forward, against the wall of his house, against
That in the air which whispers: so late, so late.
Delinquent hands. Delinquency of hands
Driven to impose an order still on rankness
When, our own order lost, we are less than grass.
Labours in drum-taut stillness, pauses, and hears
...