The sun is tangled 
       in black branches, 
raving like Absalom 
       between sky and water, 
struggling through the dark terebinth 
to commit its daily suicide. 

Now, slowly, the sea consumes it, 
leaving a glistening wound 
       on the water, 
       a red scar on the horizon; 
In darkness 
       I set out for home, 
terrified by the clash of wind on the grass, 
and the victory cry of weeds and water. 

Is there no Joab for tomorrow night,
       with three darts
       and a great heap of stones?