Hers: What do you squander night for
In coupling on a page
Rimes no man pronounces?–
Is it love or rage?
The crouched cat pounces dream-mice,
True mice play blindman’s buff.
For God’s sake give the thing a pitch,
I’ve lain cold long enough.
His: Did I write rimes for love, sweet mouse,
Then I’d have taken instead
A sheaf of verses to my thighs,
And rage–that’s rape indeed.
You are the single love I have.
Be still. A further rime
Plays cat-and-mouse about my head-
Just a few minutes. I’m
A mouser that must hunt awake
With a green eye that roams,
A shivering candle I must bear
Where shapes twitch in dark rooms.
Hers: More endless rooms, old creeping tom,
Than light can overtake.
When did you ever catch a mouse
But lean ones, wide awake?
The plump drop to the hunter
Who gropes them out when blind-
How can you keep an eye on
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