The plank throbbed in my eye;
it promised to be a goatish day,
certainties sold before breakfast
like two penn’orth of sparrows.
The hairs on my head are numbered.
Burst wineskins and bad fish,
weeds in a whitewashed tomb,
the carpenter hacking out a crossbeam
for later.
I wasn’t the least bit surprised
when it turned dark at noon.
