Outside, in front of a half-finished house
an abandoned digger sleeps folded over
like an old man half-crippled by the burden
of his own weight, or a young man
hunched on his mark, waiting to begin
the race he is sure to win.

Elsewhere, two worn out chairs tossed aside
sit side by side like old lovers.
If they had hands to hold, they’d hold them.
Even without hands, their mutual sag
is as old as love or time—a sign, perhaps:
As hard as it is to know what to feel,
there are yet new ways to see.