Of both

Rosalind’s scones are just through the trash.
Here, there are no Hindus with long leather shoes.
You’ll need a bed of geraniums to light up this fog,
like the dog wore pink.

You don’t get my mornings, sleepy with a chance of
warm sand. The sun rises above the planes.
It’s too early for Cooper’s, let their big eyes sleep in.

When I returned the mule was waiting, all
white eyelashes and ivory. That bird makes its bed in
oranges, singing sunny there’s a chance for same.

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