Arms that dance are the arms that kill. Some arms are never unarmed. Their wet light waits with consummate chill To leave your breakage unbalmed.

Arms that clap with yours for a cheer Are the arms that wave goodbye An arm that nestles for warmth in fear Recovers and wrestles the lie

A slim arm preens in a winsome pose, Gains in beauty and weight, Then chooses a thorn and loses a rose A great choice — hard, and great.

Hard things last, while sick things lose. Soft palms are armed to the hilt. Either let go, or simply refuse To be shaken in truce-warm guilt.