Karma

Still, cries of hunting shake the grove
where as a boy I with my gun
betrayed a rabbit shy as love
who made no leap to hide or run.

Deep in the cleft where time returns
the man and weasel to one shape
and no star for those shadows burns,
the hands of love were claws of rape.

And I who walk convinced of grace
should flee in terror day and night,
prey to the hunter I must face
who will not loose me from his sight.