King of the Ghosts

from “A Rabbit as King Of The Ghosts”

Wallace Stevens

Grass.

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.