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.