Already the Dying Horizon

Already the dying horizon and the thought A skyline's death inspires is tamped down For you, shrieking child, and the ones who brought You into the world live half tamped down.

Farmer, the flicking seasons take a toll But wheatfields under your application bend. Worker, your nerves first bear the strain, then call For steel turned on a lathe to shriek and grind.

Acres of pages covered with fine print, With notes, figures, acid-eaten ink, Not given to shortening the given stint, Drive you on the more to act and think.

My sky lies heavy with what I have done, Not birth, not death, but a sense that makes them one.