Issue 122, Spring 1992
The Pamet Puma
Puma, cougar, mountain lion, loup—
this is what I am afraid of. Ocarina,
small singing goose in the break-ax
wood, that you will be gone, and in
fur moving, indistinguishable from sand.
The Pamet River rides to salt, the dunes
are hills of thunder, the sky
doesn’t fall because you don’t think
but those vines you nest in
are the tops of buried trees, two eyes
shine like spearmint in the witch
grass, and even your voice neither
nor dissuades him. He will not come out.
The syrinx doesn’t call him. He knows
the place where the lamb lies down.
You who keep yourself to yourself,