Suppose everything depends on being loved
by the others. When you root in the night-heap
you are special to them: they see your coat
           as though it were hung across the moon
to dry, and they love you. What they believe is
that they live by the sharp of your teeth; it's true —
everything which comes to them
                                              goes first
           through the cool industry of your watch,
and those legs all smaller things run before. If
you love them, you hunt. If they love you,
it is best that you forget it, when a doe tacks hard

into the wash of the stream, and where your kind
has always been going is exactly where you are —
that gentle bed, doing what you love. There is no
single word for the charity of your smile.