Some rest as they can,
on the run, or at screw-tight watch,
eyes grainy for lack of sleep,
murky for the rains, the steam
of mudholes and open mouths.

Some burn their bridges,
creep then like wounded soldiers
on one good elbow each, dragging
strings and vessels of one leg each,
too spent as a group for lofty ideas,
even at such unexpected survival.

Some knuckle up against
the bloodying edges of shingles,
fix their failing roofs,
bear their burdens, two in each hand,
if necessary, for the good of all.

We'll tire, for no action
will guarantee rest. None
we save will trade our indignations
for their thinning gravel, cracked walks,
their nails emerging slowly
so the paint rises with them,
spread beyond the widths of eight-penny
heads, or blueprints and gutter-spouts,
of good and expedient causes.

Leaves will gather to clot
the leaf-screens. Aluminum drains
pull their nails and lean askew the eaves
as though their waters were too heavy,
their leaves too many. Lost balls
thunk and rattle in the trough.
Pine debris falters like may-flies,
falls randomly to soak up water
from the air and the waste flow.
Cone spines and brittle needles
soften at their work, stratify
for the record.