The thing that kills has kindness in its eyes,
the thing that loves can hate –
Each holds its hidden regions of surprise;
the locked-up door, the open gate
are equally an option: a condition
less of choice, it seems, than chance –
the importuning of a heart’s petition
may as neatly stop as start the dance.
The creature looks at me expectantly:
I want to think I see its gaze
is touched with some wise quiet irony
beyond all blaming and all praise.
.
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