The Tiger

A tiger creeps this love
Flat on his belly
Through the dusk light
Raptly, inch by inch,
Toward the gazelle this mind,
Which, coolly
Feeding on rank hopes,
Heeds neither crush
Of leaf nor windward scent
But shows its flank
To the whole hill —
When, from behind,
Leaping an arc
Of supple, deathly aim,
The flame-clad beast
Sinks its fangs
Into the smooth neck,
Mauls to the ground
That prancing shape,
Tears apart the flesh
And gluts itself on spurted
Life at the source.

Each day’s end strays
A fresh gazelle
Toward a fresh
Patch of greening hopes;
Grouches, leaps
The noiseless hulk again,
Mouths the convulsed limbs
And, ravening,
Strips them to the
Fragile, gleaming bone.