Another Lion

Give me the clover honey, a pebble on my tongue.
I saw the lion last night again, pacing in the living room.

In my morning stupor, the rush, of a point dilating into a scene
with your fierce spruce gaze contracting to the center —
black pearl a lantern in the house, I blunk the sugar down and screamed.

But a rapturous scream, a wild scream, a hidden scream
that sounds off in the mind and ricochets back and forth
from crown to toes to crown back up then around. You, wide frame with a hand
on your heart, humming in the dazzle of edges white hemmed;
in the chill of the wan shining, I took in breath of the fissling pines,
grabbed hold of two unrelated things, pushed them
into
one thing.

That’s Us. The cabin in the valley
with the trees and grey and cool gusts proceeding on in their activities
while I fall into gristmills of unproductive poetry, and you stand in the open door

banging your chest, face held to daylight.

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