Consolation During An Eve-Ning's Rest From The Deathwork Poem by Justin Cocke

To-day's wounds are still
hot with memory from the deathwork on me,
and my faith in everything beyond to-morrow has too-soon been worked-down to a nub.
But see! The labor that works over and against me is itself not the end,
the spade's left erect in the earth;
the ax's stuck, put away, in the bole.
Hafts just-quit: warm, salty and oily. These can be my food for the night.
For I am still a project undone, and I must abandon not this affirmation!
I am still the ground yet-excavated, the timber yet felled, to-night.