A lion pulls me forward
   my heart       the wheels
the air                on fire.
   How long?    How long?
As far back as I remember.
            Three—the pigs’
screaming fear
            the rifle shot.
     Four—the stolen egg yolks
on the sidewalk            suns crackling
  Seventy—long green seed pods
            hanging from the trees
     comb my hair as I pass under.
Get home says the honey locust    or Stay.
    Not always sure of the translation
but fire knows             I listen
            let go of direction
    arms wide    chest open.   Ears.
Fire everywhere.          Or is it light?
    Am I sound enough for the ride?
As far back as I can remember
      the lion      the heart
         unasks the question.
S. Robbins, from Readings

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