They’ve come and made their camp
Within sight, within slingshot range,
A circle of bulked shapes
Dark inside like wagons.
There are fires like open eyes.
I watch the billows of smoke,
The dark patches, hallucinating
Herds and horses.
Who is that in flashing garments
Bowing to the earth over and over,
Is it a woman or a child?
In the wedge of the valley by the stream
What food are they cooking, what names have they
For washing the dead, for the days of the week?
The long rope has landed, the loose siege hemming me.
In whatever time remains, I will not have the strength to depart.