The Lion
In the purple morning
when the grass is wet
and mosquitos bite my fingers
and dive into my hair
and someone starts snoring
and I feel old
then I see the lion
at the end of the slope
Underneath the lion
is a bench of funny men
I can't hear their laughter
with the lion's snore in my head
We walked down to drink the water
and the fish and rocks appeared
and I thought I had the answer
to what I couldn't hear
But then Hemingway came crawling
with a spear through his back
and he asked me 'bout my father
and if I knew him well
And he walks into the kitchen
and grabs a kitchen knife
while I'm in the sink with
a fish that's still alive
Then a thunderstorm rumbles
and clouds my tired eyes
my fingers pulling, deep in
the mane of the lion
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