The ocelot eats the bat, inside,
It flies and sheds dreams, The dreams are anger, lust and joy, The ocelot thinks, its eye gleams, Its thinking becomes what it is, Its muscles beneath its fur, When the bat has ceased to exist, In its spring, its race, its blur. Or the hawk and rat, or the opossum And mouse, or the sky and unending Canopy of trees, or the night That creeps upon the sky, extending Blue into black and brilliant white Eyes. Mostly, the morpho butterfly, Its flight, its vision, its senses Its wisdom and wings, which mystify, Is one, a flashing necklace, Glinting wings, a silent bright, Its dreams, its thoughts, evocations, Depend upon its flight.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
Yaacov David Shulman
Archives
October 2019
Categories |