When the mouth of the lion opens

in paradise, do his teeth gleam

with a frenzied trembling left over

from death, that unripe windowpane

we press our faces against to admire

the roofless serentiy of beings at ease

with the perpetual?

Or the woman—whose back might as well

be a mountain in profile for how it wears

its stars without looking up—does she

never weep for love like a bonfire

in that undulating consumation of new days?

And if her thighs are immacualte,

will the moon borrow passion

from the heron’s blue lament?

And what of her: Shall I go? Shall I stay?

Rather to feast on the raw heart of a dream

in which our animal souls pare away

an earthly sadness so omnipotent

we startle awake, ungentled

as lake water at midnight

whose stars, even in repose, know

they will never be confirmed.

No, not paradise, but the lion’s rich red look.