The Hyena hunches under the Poet’s
tree, alone and wholly
unknown
to the pollen of his coat
markings; the drip
dye
dawn
of his words
unformed
–
scavenge the remains
of day, as he awaits
idly in scent; the elixir
of pure memory
and when the sun rises
to fall, he laughs a laugh
mistaken only
for the incandescent
untruth
surfacing
in the unsound
–
our deception of art lies
in our hungering for art
–
and this, the pilgrim of all
falls, as we do
in the fleeting sun,
into every moment of his life
with the colors of a shadow
intimate to his eye
that in growing sad
is granted
to be
more than itself
–
for in the scrap-bone
lays lost verse
preying long into his reserves,
grinding, cracking, and now set free
in the palpable essence
of the carrion of lost time
–
from between his laughing teeth;
lone hyena holds the world
found in our eyes
–
his cowardly frame, veiled
and plagued by decay
nurses all the invisible secrets
of the mosaic of scent, and still
he laughs a laugh
we will never comprehend
