Cats’ eyes could see a flub of blood.

Hm. Not her eyes whose pain

Arched in the dark by the roadside.

No cats, nothing. She tried, & tried,

Troubling not Christ’s night in vain.

Scum of the moon caught on her chin,

Harmless & sickle moon, a slack

Drink-dull passer noticed her,

To gather the beggar out of the blur

Into his wagon, sick, and track.

The soft flesh melted from the bones

Of the child born dead, for days & days

In the wood’s edge. Birds, nothing came.

Bones go. All is the same, the same,—

Except our envy O wintry praise!