Grief is not you, nor are
the form and inward form
of you the thin despair
that whispers of your harm.
Still there are ways that leave
no valiance at all,
not of the mind but of
the inward animal:

that which is lustful in
the selves' enchanted bond,
or sees a robber when
hand is on trusting hand;
that which is death when else
I am a fire of peace,
pours tides across my pulse,
negations in my face;

the primitive revolt
against a mind or will,
the blood of Abel spilt
in cups already full.
Being and feeling and thought
are but a naked man
who fights what he is not,
the animal within.

We are their fields; their path
the peace of me-and-you;
their long discourteous wrath
the civil war of woe.
Knowledge and now conflict;
nor have I power enough
only to live your fact
and the name of grief.