There is a green ruin where they gather in twos and threes
like Pentecostalists in the Soviet Union.
Because they are perfect strangers, they can trust each other,
Speechless at last in the kind sub-zero. A handful,
With one frostbitten foot in front of the other,
Measure the parade-ground like a tightrope artist would
In the small steps that bring us to our knees.
The night before the work is to start for good,
They grow silent. They go silently. Fires are let die
And they breathe in undertones. Stars may or may not,
But the small hours gloss their sleeping bags
Like site machinery under moonlight, straw on the iron,
And where they lie the frost cannot find them out, The vegetables their bodies bodyguard.
from his new collection, According to the Small Hours