you and me and all the gods
any poet can describe the carcass of day,
a hollow of bones and time
gnawed by death
and defeat. so what?
the truth is: we are alone together
in this kitchen
and between us on the table
lies a blue ceramic bowl
cradling a fat peach.
it is shaped like one idea of beauty.
i take it in my palm and wait
so that you may gaze out the window
elongating across a thick lawn.
she pauses, nose thinking
at the front of her still body.
she turns her head.
her pink eyes look directly at you:
this is lucky.
not because of folklore
but because she is an improbable vehicle of a fantastic god
and she contemplates you
as if she is witnessing
fire approaching from a distant prairie
a fellow rabbit
on the verge of breaking free.