We make our meek adjustments,



Contented with such random consolations



As the wind deposits



In slithered and too ample pockets.







For we can still love the world, who find



A famished kitten on the step, and know



Recesses for it from the fury of the street,



Or warm torn elbow coverts.







We will sidestep, and to the final smirk



Dally the doom of that inevitable thumb



That slowly chafes its puckered index toward us,



Facing the dull squint with what innocence



And what surprise!







And yet these fine collapses are not lies



More than the pirouettes of any pliant cane;



Our obsequies are, in a way, no enterprise.



We can evade you, and all else but the heart:



What blame to us if the heart live on.







The game enforces smirks; but we have seen



The moon in lonely alleys make



A grail of laughter of an empty ash can,



And through all sound of gaiety and quest



Have heard a kitten in the wilderness.





