IN the gray dust before a frail gray shed, br By a board fence obscenely chalked in red, br A gray creek willow, left from country days, br Flickers pallid in the haze. br br Beside the gutter of the unpaved street, br Tin cans and broken glass about his feet, br And a brown whisky bottle, singled out br For play from prosier crockery strewn about, br Twisting a shoestring noose, a Polack's brat br Joylessly torments a cat. br br His dress, some sister's cast-off wear, br Is rolled to leave his stomach bare. br His arms and legs with scratches bleed; br He twists the cat and pays no heed. br He mauls her neither less nor more br Because her claws have raked him sore. br His eyes, faint-blue and moody, stare br From under a pale shock of hair. br Neither resentment nor surprise br Lights the desert of those eyes -- br To hurt and to be hurt; he knows br All he will know on earth, or need to know. br br But there, beneath his willow-tree, br His tribal, tutelary tree, br The tortured cat across his knee, br With hate, perhaps, a threat, maybe, br Lithuania looks at me.