Lion's Night
Claw swagger behind the night bars. Silence like meat
that swings from shade to hole of dark. Claw scrape as
scrawl of signal of what has not died inside this cage, this
zone of snow with the crowds dead.
Lion in his pace of nights, his blurr of blood; his action
caught in and concluded. The mind becoming a hugh moth. The
idea a dead mountain. Every day rage running back
a little more.
There must be music for this; in some cave of a country
with the people screwed down by some hysterical god. There
must be writing on this, a literature red without blood,
white without bone.
Inside the lion’s mind a song without a tongue, a day with
no dream. Like a drum beneath ice. Yellow eyes and claw swagger
and the action that would make sane the mad
or blow out the brain
of the kindest saint.
Page(s) 73
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