Here’s a small pond with its ducking stool
And one middle-aged witch clutching a broom;
Here the forest of satellite dishes
All covered in a late snow; here two peasants
Ass deep in the bowels of a haystack.
A whining dog rears up like a blinded horse;
A stockbroker sets out for the morning train.
I am that solitary, head covered by hood,
Who scuffs his feet in the tractless waste
Just beyond the left corner of the village.
I am hungry. A blue horsefly distracts me.
One day I may get out of my own circling
To watch villagers circle on a frozen pond.