Sisyphus, I forgot to say that, though
the sun always dies before I’ve finished,
and, when sweat and soil sting my brow, I’ve wished
these weeds would be considerate and slow
their growth to match my digging speed (for no
day ends with a cleared field, though I twist
and pull at the roots till sundown, and I’ve missed
many golden hours willing dead crops to grow):

I must also say that, when the breeze licks
gently through the goat skin he gave me, I
fancy the field’s not as dead as I’d assumed—
at least nothing a few aeons won’t fix,
when grace one day transfigures this bloodied sky
and I, however fruitless my labors, am subsumed.