Settled by my open door
  Shaded by an upper floor
Strollers do not look at me
  As if I were or am.

My gaze is fixed on what I see,
  A hornet crawling up a tree,
Hung upon a sharpened claw,
  Its wings vibrating as a fan.

So this is how we sort things out:
  They there, I here, and he,
Oblivious of us both, absorbs
  The questing ray of transferred doubt.

Brisk nothing passes in this way
  Handing on reflections from day to
Night: Minding a machine:
  Docketing a social hoard.

Distracted by another’s minute trust
  It’s years before we know there’s been
A steady fall of age like dust.