That roaring you hear is not
the lion of the spirit. Most
likely a big truck grinding up

Temple Mountain, the night
collapsing all around it.
We don’t disparage the effort

of diesel engines ascending
that slope, but the lion sleeps
too deeply for us to arouse it.

Yesterday our local ranger
heard a lion clearing its throat
in knee-deep snow a mile away.

He told everyone at the diner,
but only you believed the lion
of the spirit, no ordinary

cougar, was about to speak aloud.
Its violet tones would shiver you
from head to heel, rendering

every object a relic, every
gesture a penitent’s. Sin
would puddle like snowmelt

But you’ll never hear that roar
shatter our dark complacencies.
The lion of the spirit haunts

only the desert you’ve never seen,
a snowless venue you’d despise
for its lack of mappable contours.