December 30, 2014 § Leave a comment

from behind
the baobab
I see him
there now
at the bank, river
lapping at his fangs
eyes hungering
to fix
on intruders

I see no reason
to stop
the tiger

whose only obsession
is to
banish me from
my jungle

into that abstemious urn of androidal hollowness

where the defunct
drag about

seeing only
aftermath of deluge
not puddles for paper boats

the embers of inferno
not elusive illumination

(c) 2014 Fred Whitehead


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