iii.

But the lion unleashed in the places of the mind

peers from the face, sucks in the selfsame breath

running the pungent streets of time

snuffles out life and death

stares at the space between the flowing words

     jars the heart

     doubles sight

shows us the fearful features free from art

ranges ahead or halts to play behind

     rocks us

lion of the sun

lion of the night

Librarian

I keep an eye out for signals

     left, seemingly

     inoffensive as cave

paintings once their gods withdraw.

The living are so skittish.

And even in disconnected

     literary scraps

     correspondences stand

out; the cruelty, for example,

always remarked on.  The pleasure

so extreme.  Prevailing

     frameworks of discourse

     sprung, like misused

tools.  Ciphers?  Perhaps.

This abasement of the empowered?

A tax on borrowed vocabularies.

     Did some accept

     happily any

terms that license such knowing?

Did others pay up for the stamp?

Pleasant to interrogate these fragments

     in safety.  About

     the mad or the burned

we can't be sure, since

others made their records,

but the old doctor advised

     against disclosure

     and he was private

among his own collections

till near his end.  A respectable

placement is an advantage.

     It is too soon

     to retire.  I

protect my own children from knowing

and rarely acknowledge now

others I discern.  Better

     to be secret.

     Secure a cave,

prepare a message.  Catch

in words the beast I hunt.

                                            Continue  Stream of Fire

Home Page | Links: American Women Poets and Long Poems | In Love With The Angel | Stream of  Fire  | The Year Of This Snapshot | Death While Traveling | Third Moment | Interactions

Email:  [email protected]