Foreboding

Something immense and lonely

divides the earth at evening.

For nine years I have watched

from an inner doorway:

as in a confused vision,

manlike figures approach, cover

their faces, and pass on,

heavy with iron and distance.

There is no sound but the wind

crossing the road, filling

the ruts with a dust as fine as chalk.

Like the closing of an inner door,

the day begins its dark

journey, across nine bridges

wrecked one by one.