This poem is taken from PN Review 31, Volume 9 Number 5, May - June 1983.
NightNight. 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
...
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