from “A Rabbit as King Of The Ghosts”
Grass thin, bristle grass quilling,
rifing in the light's bone yellows,
Dry rustle, hot drum-beat of the morning.
There the rabbit king comes hunching
his burial dance, spine jumping
up through hungry skin,
cracked tooth sweeping the dirt.
His leg—the longer one—sweeps around,
draws his spirit circle in the alkali dust
of bird skulls and owl shits.
Long leg, barb of wire pulsing
in the bone between toes, he raises high,
scepter-leg bleeding; whispers pale
secrets into it, words that strip fur.
He rocks in his thin skin, milky eyes quivering,
and behind him the white sun pulls up
settles like a crown over his cracked ears
and its light stains his domain:
the terrified living.