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Mutability
W.D. Snodgrass

It was all different; that, at least, seemed sure.
We still agreed — but only that she'd changed.
Some things that you still loved might still endure.

You woke in your own, big, dove-tailed bed, secure
And warm — but the whole room felt rearranged.
It was all different; that, at least, seemed sure.

The lamp stood four-square — like your furniture;
The air'd gone tinged, though, or the light deranged.
Some things that you still loved might still endure

Outside. Your fields stretched, a parched upland moor
Where shadows paired and split, where lean shapes ranged.
It was all different; that, at least, seemed sure

And that, from here on in, you could count on fewer
Second chances. Some rules might be arranged;
Some things that you still loved might still endure,

Though some old friends would close, soon, for the pure
Joy of the kill — no prisoners exchanged.
It was all different; that, at least, seemed sure.

Maybe the injuries weren't past all cure.
No luck lasts; yours might not, too long, stay estranged;
Some things that you still loved might still endure.
It was all different; that, at least, seemed sure.

 
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