He’s the man who climbs his barn
to look down on the fields,
the man leading his horse from the barn
that finally fell down.
When I’m quiet he speaks:
we’re like the spider
we weave new beds around us
when old ones are swept away.
When I see too much
I follow his advice
and close my worn-out eye.
Yesterday he was poor
but tomorrow he says his house
will fill up with silver
the white flesh will fatten on his frame.
Old man, window in a sky
full of holes,
I am like you
putting on a new white shirt
to drive away on the fine roads.