If doubt were an animal
it would be large and grey
like a whale, only not as benign
as we dream them to be.
Perhaps it would be falling
to the bottom of the sea,
victim of a stroke or swift senility,
a shadow looming on anemonae,
knowing even less its fate
than its waving victim.
A battle known is half a battle won.
The shifting tides of life
make shifting half of victory,
and so and sometimes sinks a thing
so large it blots the sun,
and it seems to me that half of doubt
are legs too firm to run.
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