It isn’t about that


said the hare, its 

poppy petal remains 


across the snow


and you hesitated, clutching still

at equations,

wanting to explain away 


and loss

or deviations like pain, at the mean 

and the parameters of grief


but the hare laughed

at such ministrations

and with an evanescent twitch

he pointed to your heart. 


It’s about that,

said the hare

as he stamped the stained 


and how you love

even this


as the hawk circles 


with its untroubled hunger


ever ready 

to offer you

the sky.

Categories: Uncategorized

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