Spring 1951 • Vol. XIII No. 2 Poetry |

Third Anniversary Poem

There is a bitter beast living In my back and belly, And most of all he is given To feeding himself in the holy Hive and hinge of my groin; All hours he is sniffing and pawing. In my head a rapacious bird, With hooked and haughty beak, Is fitting his little hard Eyes with mine to take My dear looks—embroiling My voice in his cold cawing. Oh Love, child, hunter, Come. Track down beast, Bird, and all their number, Vermining my rest. My heart's stiff darts want drawing Against their noise and gnawing.

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