He is in love with the land that is always overThe next hill and the next, with the bird that is never,Caught, with the room beyond the looking glass.He likes the half-hid, the half-heard, the half-lit,The man in the fog, the road without an ending …

Cats, no less liquid than their shadows,Offer no angles to the wind.They slip, diminished, neat, through loopholesLess than themselves.