Woodcut
It is autumn but early. No crow cries from the dry woods.
The house droops like an eyelid over the leprous hill.
In the bald barnyard one horse, a collection of angles
Cuts at the flies with a spectral tail. A blind man’ s
Sentence, the road goes on. Lifts as the slope lifts it.
Comes now one who has been conquered
By all he sees. And asks what — would have what —
Poor fool, frail, this man, mistake, my hero?