Alfred Kreymborg

Animals

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What animal you are
or whether you are
an animal, I
am too dumb to tell.
Some moments,
I feel you've come out of the earth,
out of some cool white stone
deep down in the earth.
Or there brushes past
and lurks in a corner
the thought
that you slipped from a tree
when the earth stopped spinning,
that a blue shell brought you
when the sea tired waltzing.
You might be a mouse,
the dryad of a woodpecker,
or a pure tiny fish dream;
you might be something dropped from the sky,
not a god-child--
I wouldn't have you that--
nor a cloud--
though I love clouds.
You're something not a bird,
I can tell.
If I could find you somewhere
outside
of me, I might tell--
but inside?

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