of the poor woodcutter hide
bundles in the elms' hollows.
White rosebush, red rosebush.
Shiny adze, spade, dug out
gold sepals but no blossoms.
of the poor cobbler quiet
against the workshop tongues,
kobolds at the milk. Stitch, stitch.
of the poor miller if you ask
kindly. Sublimes to gravid air.
Waking up slowly. Where
do I end and my apron begin?
Where are my sisters? We multiply
like mice, like grains of barley.
Who will sort us out? As a favor,