The Hunter

The cold and gentle man

Seeks his spirit's prey

Where jaguars crouch

Over rocks cracked by strong water,

And hawks rise dark as poverty.

Yet no lion or lava stone

Or river's flow down

But becomes in his cold and gentle sight

Softened and free; a season

Of his will where May creeps

Beneath the rotting ice

And space devours authority.

Tho passion here lay plain

As sun on stone, the cold and gentle man

Would rend desire to a bone

And, in the cool flawed snow of May

Gnaw the vision that corrupts a man

Into a hero, gorged and free.

And what the rock and river say

Melt on the iris of his will

Till, blinded, he is torn apart

By stones of his necessity-

And the jaguar sits at play

With the crystals of his heart.