by James Croal Jackson.
after our red leash
became frantic
unsure of what grip
the wilderness had
or which eyeline
to focus on
oh aquamarine jewels
oh black-silk storks
name the artist
who decided traffic
was a logjam
in their brain
all you must do
(golden hour brown
on the frizz
of your hair)
is unclench
your fist
and follow
the leopard