When Dawn, with her rosy fingers, draws
the bed sheets down, and thinks about work,
and indifferent things, like the new lover snoring
like a typical North American jerk,

post-coital, and animal, and sleeping,
and expecting more of the same tomorrow—
when her fingers draw down, and the sun comes up,
she knows about mornings, and days, and sorrow.

She has seen them for years. She does not care.
She has risen on carrion, and bodies in love.
She is never tired. She always rises,
indifferent, looking at things from above.