Is the lawn, which scrapes the horizon
And the hose waters where it may
Fissuring long the earth where morning glory rises
To strangle the gutters and ravage the fences
Alone there is a woman in the doorway
With blue eyes long since grayed
Her fairness speckled with brutish black and blue

For her husband is drunk
And when he is he does what he pleases
She screams, “You have no right”
He replies, “That my dear is why I strike with my left”