This poem is from WALKING ON WASTE.
Mornings, we often passed him on the road,
he drew out eyes like a full, white moon,
he was always focused on the way ahead:
the belt of conifers around the mountain.
Like a shroud, he wore his hood,
his skin like lime of the Georgetown tip,
his boney limbs seemed poles of wood,
his features rough stones of the hill-top.
He was on the way up, we were descending,
each breath a punch beyond his weight,
each drab paving-stone the ring
of canvas where he'd bloodily fought.
Now he's struck in metal down town
and nobody can break the Matchstick Man.