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
