A rabbit slant and eyelashed,
one leg longer than others
and loose, fur
unspoiled gray. Its thoughts
a wonderful histamine,
its body solvent
with tablespoons of blood.
I’d like to be more
than strangers
with this rabbit. What use
is a landscape without hair,
a landscape meatless,
pitied? If I was
a child I’d find myself
a rabbit, rub its body 
with skittering oil. Somewhere
an office park cries. Somewhere
a man bends to tie his shoe.