A black streetman comes swaggering towards me,
High starlessness above us, an invisible god
Of winter cold hiding the moon, stars and snow.
He's in a Rasta cap and a shapeless coat
Of well-known orange tweed, an African weave.
He talks like a robot. [...]
I wanted to burn myself, so I threw my tools
In the fire and tried to pull them out.
The screwdriver with the plastic handle—yes,
It made a mess of my hand. My drop-forged
Pliers—those pliers I use as inadequate wire-cutters,
Or for rounding off [...]