Little Lion
You have your first non waking pseudo.
A paper clip
Bent to the angles finely and terse.
Fingers - blood red to the top pointer;
Blow on it - eye level - carefully, purposefully,
Cleanly.
The small of a back.
The tempest foreshadow
In the haze of Borealis dust.
In the moment first-
Right before you open your hand
To release the day’s prayer.
An echo with weight that startles.
A pin popping the cool air filled night.
All you had was selfish.
All that gave was as well.
Little lions eventually eat and hunt alone.
Each male lion develops its own pride.
It eats unassisted.
Xaipe.
The swing in the rouge et Noir.
The depths of curled corners mixed with
Fumbling hands on dark chalked walls.
One with light.
One with negative space.
The floor. The walls. The ballerina.
Hunting with little lions to make whole.
One pride.
One dream for Santiago;
One dream.
