Brave cave of morning, golden carpet,
shaken out like the salt and pepper for eggs,
toast and tea,
Yawn most practically and bring in the desert
dust of old eyes,
and empty high-chairs.
Finch-eye of the sun, seething ominous,
black rock breakfast table; feed him off to go,
dead black bean waterfall in a rush.
She presses her chamois to the gingham;
She brooms him blousily out of the door.
The noise ceases; the quiet has edges.
No farther than an eyelash-breadth from dreaming,
But Sleep is another country, and her king is dead
To the dry washed dishes,
And the drying clothes
Where there are women weeping
In brittle tones.
The quiet dies; the noise is a needle.
She presses her pink to his tiny, tiny red,
It is white, like the crepe myrtles, what flows between them.
Brave slave in the ant war, in the cricket war;
In the bright glorious march,
Against woods and meadows,
for roads, roads, roads.
For home and god.
For the bright fire-tounge,
And the hearth of earth.
She hath borne her his sons; it is a barren thing.
She clockwork-sweeps the old wish beneath the rug.
The rusty wind runs down in the cleanest corner,
Wind again, wind again, up, up up,
Clear the cups.