Tagore Variations 5

Birds trace their separations through

coiled dusk—infinity: am I native there?

It is kindness to try at least the heart’s

But suppose the heart survives

across the lawns between the house

cats’ point of repeating their sufferings

Maybe an old poet comes lumbering

along, considering love’s reciprocal

nature to nourish its roots in a wild grief—

he kicks the nest accidentally and sees

the mother dragging her young on

little pink nipples, nervously

scooting for another mound of grass, and

doesn’t recognize them at first. He knows

they may end a stiff chip of fur

in the trap the old man set, or betrayed

by comfort, jolt of poison, staggering

on a linoleum square. He sees them

beneath the brazen nothingness of things,

creatures like himself, grotesque where

water sucks lazily on stones.