Song

Sweet beast, I have gone prowling, a proud rejected man who lived along the edges catch as catch can; in darkness and in hedges I sang my sour tone and all my love was howling conspicuously alone. I curled and slept all day or nursed my bloodless wounds until the squares were silent where I could make my tunes singular and violent. Then, sure as hearers came I crept and flinched away. And, girl, you've done the same. A stray from my own type, led along by blindness, my love was near to spoiled and curdled all my kindness. I find no kin, no child; only the weasel's ilk. Sweet beast, cat of my own stripe, come and take my milk.