Noon Hour

She sits in the dust at the walls And makes cigars, Bending at the bench With fingers wage-anxious, Changing her sweat for the day's pay. Now the noon hour has come, And she leans with her bare arms On the window-sill over the river, Leans and feels at her throat Cool-moving things out of the free open ways: At her throat and eyes and nostrils The touch and the blowing cool Of great free ways beyond the walls.