Poets

I wake up cold, I who Prospered through dreams of heat Wake to their residue, Sweat, and a clinging sheet.

The blue jay scuffling in the bushes follows Some hidden purpose, and the gush of birds That spurts across the field, the wheeling swallows, Have nested in the trees and undergrowth.

Two dumpy women with buns were drinking coffee In a narrow kitchen—at least I think a kitchen And I think it was whitewashed, in spite of all the shade. They were flat brown, they were as brown as coffee.