The wind whips the wires overhead.
Across the street, up on the high bank,
Rises the old mansion,
A many-eyed, tiny-mouthed face, grinning flatly.
Above the slate-hatted wedge of a head,
Beneath the deep blue of predawn,
Framed in a cork-colored window of illuminated cloud,
Beams the pale face of a bitten moon.
Tiny,
Reviled,
Tired,
Relieved—
Stands a man, before his den again.
