Seven in the morning.
In her confinement
this feather bed cows.
Lurking mildew and soot
hassles her bronchus.
Damp, tinker's pot black
streams down the window wall.

She's sensate,
radioluminescence at the glass
from sore red sun,
and gaunt, frail to the bones.

Rue Du Coq d'Or, Paris, seven in the morning.
Her spick-and-span elf-boy sleeps
on the twists of the mattress.

Tomorrow she'll grapple laundry
foisting on a sturdy bloom.