Not yet dispersed stands in every yard
And drops and undiscloses, she is severely
Put to the task of herself.
Usually here we have view-window dawns,
The whole East Bay at lease some spaces into the room,
Puffing the curtains, and then she is out
In the submetropolitan stir.
But when the fog at the glass pauses and closes
She is put to ponder
A life-line, how it chooses to run obscurely
In her hand, before her.
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by Josephine Miles, 1946
