Lives like maize were threshed in the bottomless
granary of wasted deeds, of shabby
incidents, from one to sevenfold, even to eight,
and not one death but many deaths came each man’s way:
each day a petty death, dust, worm, a lamp
snuffed out in suburban mud, a petty fat-winged
death
entered each one like a short spear
and men were beset by bread or by the knife:
the drover, the son of seaports, the dark captain of the plow,
or those who gnaw at the cluttered streets:
all of them weakened, waiting their death, their brief death
daily,
and their dismal weariness each day was like
a black cup they drank down trembling.