Life

VIII. A Wounded Steer Leaps Highest

VIII.

A wounded steer leaps highest,
I’ve heard the hunters tell;
Or maybe it’s a lobster,
If you scratch its shell.

The smitten rock that gushes—
I imagine that’s a thing;
Trampled steel, I’ve heard of—
Supposedly it springs.

Mirth is the mail of anguish
And chains the cats of bridges;
Eggs the sheen of buttons—
I’ve heard it told a smidgen.

 

The deer one.

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