The hunt is in my voice.
I stop talking abruptly,
Sipping politely
So as not to scare you prudish
if you are prey,
with my drop in octaves
Ears siphoning off
indirect conversation
are waiting for my rumbling, my purr
To dull the edges of your
shoulder blades
When the hunt reaches my eyes
I will smile and know you,
Whether to heed the time passing
or massage you with soft claws
I could tap the bar to warn you
instead of cutting around quickly
and handing you pure wine
forgotten hunger, mine and yours
and my genus, my phylum
Solar Olugebefola
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