The Ghost Lions Prowl by John Swain

Lion twilight of the desert mountain,
I cleaned my knife on a distant pinnacle
leaving all of the edges in red.
Intensity of distance,
the bones of a condor rest in a rock chimney
overlooking the thorn flat.
The black ground moved in waves
at the fist of the gale wind traveling,
I felt the world breathe through my breath
like a pouring clay vessel.
The silence of the ghost lions prowl
for jackrabbit and deer,
we each join the void as a martyr.
The sky begins to ache raven dark
carrying the stars,
I would disappear with this silver wife.

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