Rabbits of the Earth and Moon
The rabbit’s soul is not
in an emerald pocket of cabbage.
It is winter white once
snow covers the crab apple’s rot.
Between post-harvest bareness and the utter covering,
the snow cups the black mass of fruit
like an eye that never blinks,
the rabbit’s eye always watching.
In the industry of anxiety,
the rabbit worries from the earth
fluorescent roots swaddled in the breath
of grubs and ghosts.
When pressed, the rabbit is fearless,
emerges in the presence of man.
The rabbit’s search for food
is a desperate prayer.
Past the edge of the field, you can see
the moon rabbit, the alien apothecary
who mixes lunar plants
to make breath’s medicine
for the lady who once feasted on delight
without her husband, whose hunger bound her
to the food of the moon.
The moon’s breath stops
the industry of hearts.
The rabbits of earth look
solemnly for their large similitude,
the bruise on the face of the moon.
The moon would be heartless
without the true body
of the moon rabbit,
whose white medicine consumes
the flesh of all dropped fruit.
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