Poetry of the broad daylight

The night we had hung our boots 
And wanted to be asked to explain
Nobody asked  poetry with mind.

Now is poetry less mind,  a mind
Of mere bird calls, a lonely cuckoo
Calling to rain from a leafless twig
Unusually enlarged to our  vision
Consequently dissipated in a sky.

 Cuckoo went hoarse with no rain .
 Freshly wet with poetry less mind,
We went hoarse with construction.
Our poems  go down their throats.