the tiger kneels in the white lilies
angular thicklimbed
grinning sweet

i should warn them all of
this tail lashing its own hunger
warm dry panting for slick blood
shoulders of angry continents

but he turns, makes a little face.
a first from a murderous tiger
but i am highly educated:
he's clearly sighing
'what can i do?'
i understand i should be
a sport about this
(his trust intoxicates me)

so back to the classifieds
looking for the aesop moral in
'the homicidal predator
the mound of dead flowers
and the truly beautiful children'

(their cherub faces flash with sweat
botticelli would be crying
and desperate, sketching)

by now the paper's soggy
from the monochrome rainbows
and wine-dark waterfalls
of blood
still i'm responsible enough
to want to recycle
(then breakfast?)
but heading to the bin i watch

pallid lilies swell to blush
orphaned flesh greases narrow teeth
at last the shadowed metaphor
as the big cat slides
down seven gulping ashen little throats