Even a mole-rat relishes the sweetness
Inside its mole-skinned eyes. And a roach,
Groping through a stove-pipe's greasy dust,
Has spots on its soul specialized for joy.
There are salt songs for anemones, and lust
Yet unsavored for a starfish to broach.
Sorrowing butterflies grieve for life's fleetness;
Ecstasy floods them at autumn's approach.
Vines feel the Earth's turning, heavy with must;
Each brief, tilted round their tongues will destroy.
No creature not surfeit with terror and trust.
