Colorless green ideas

Poem for a dawn I missed by rising late

Wren, when will that cricket stop its racket in your throat?

Cricket, how could you play second fiddle all night to the katydids?

And you lot, with your gossip about poor Kate, who did both less & more than you can know –

be still now. Turn into a leaf, a sail, a rudder. Sleep furiously for every hour without love.