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here in a cabbage-tainted flat

time celebrates itself as minutes, as days

there are mice nibbling at the wainscot

cockroaches climb the slop pail

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within doors

within doors at last

we, who have spent our years

bent in the bright fields

or trudging over snow

from fence to far fence,

sit behind dusty windows

our faces even now not quite faded

from the lofty open sky

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on the spread table

lies the bread in its cradle

of fluted paper

two cups of soup

thin as blood, red as wine

a fish with a lemon backbone

and olive eyes