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 In the broken light, in owl weather,
Webs on the lawn where the leaves end,
I took the thin moon and the sky for cover
To pick the cat's brains and descend
A weedy hill.
I found him groveling Inside the summerhouse, a shadowed bulge, Furred and somnolent.
—"I bring," I said, "besides this dish of liver, and an edge Of cheese, the customary torments, And the usual wonder why we live At all, and why the world thins out and perishes As it has done for me, sieved As I am toward silences.
Where Are we now? Do we know anything?" —Now, on another night, his look endures.
"Give me the dish," he said.
I had his answer, wise as yours.

by Weldon Kees
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