The Paradox of Jerome’s Lion

Local his discourse, not yet exemplary, Nowadays he is old, the translator, So old he is practically transparent. Good things and otherwise, evils done Come home to him, too close to the bone And so little transformed, Him so transparent, They float in and out of his window. Killing fields and the pumpkin patch, The combat boot putrid in a cherry tree, Stroke on stroke the mortal build-up, All the constraint, all the letting go, So insistent in his attentions That he needs a breathing block. For lack of a monitor he might levitate, The testy old bird, at his wondow; He needs an animal, a sure thing, One to imagine, at last. Speechless As bedrock, a rough reminder of that. A dog might be vigilant enough, Intact, all heart, a yellow desert dog. Avoirdupoids. A leopard? Markings Regular, talons to swat Any hurt away. Knowing Hunger, not the greed. Sufficient Unto itself, svelte, clean of limb; Free through self-discipline, yes, Yes, through self-discipline free, And fierce, yet doing no violence The wild by right he will restore To a holy place, in time. For want of that sort of a beast, He might make do with a frog.