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They can
smell human fear,
his only predator. Well-versed
in the lexicon of hunger,
he struts into a cage of flooded light.
The lions, in single file,
flow through a chute like melted wax
and assume their fierce postures
on their stools. The circus air,
thick with the scent of candy and dung,
shatters with the cracks of his whip.
His raised chair looms precariously
between himself and rawest fear.
The lions roar. Their great, flexed paws
swipe blue tubes of light. They leap
through rings of fire, spring back
to their stools, and rear, angling
right between his eyes the double-
barreled shotguns of their muzzles.
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