before the tiger growls,
it is fair to request an epiphany-
a minor something to balm the rips
that unexpected claws might cause:
it is easier to blame
than to cage the beast.
a clinging vine is sure to kill
in a way unlike the tiger-
one a swift and bloody gasp,
which is acceptable in its kind,
a sort of slipping oozing end
that is not without satisfaction.
the other wraps and compresses
the lungs into a deadly gun for breath
that is too slow for flesh to grasp
and causes greater torture.
some days you think,
some days you feel,
some days you turn,
drowning under the water wheel.
outside, the finicky twins
ride the twittering tailcoats
of turncoats of irony:
the neglected lawn chairs
stand mossily opposed.
there was a turn on the road to Damascus,
that seemed to do no good,
if you look at the unturned history.
when the chartreuse ozone
comes tumbling down,
smart rodents seek the rafters.
peel your onions and try to stifle weeping.