He fled when solitude met him,
but he only butt his head
against the bars--anxiety, unmuscularity--
when inside the lion's cage.

Strangely, light shone through the beast's
esophagus. The moon was brighter without
the pack.

As he sits, the clouds roll above the
bowing greenery; they seem
more than just villi,
and the loamy pungency
more fragrant than intestinal musk.

When he questions the world,
it echoes in return,
but an answer would just startle,
and by now he is hardly material.

He will touch the earth again
without knowing. But before then
he would only laugh, and delight
when the world laughs back.