Poets

As the light goes, go. Be the rustling in the grass, the fall from convention's good graces: learn, or someone will have you filing files or writing writs,

With the morning's bird calls comes a woman's sobbing and I'm left to eavesdrop, to reconcile sympathy with helplessness and speculate on first causes. My guess:

They give her lunch, prick her finger for sugar. Her stories are usually about being unlucky: a young soldier is given away by the steam from his own urine and so on and so forth.