I read
about the lives
of desperate,
brilliant,
lonely men

men who died alone
lived alone
fucked alone

and I know that I am one of them
and it makes me happy

And there is something in you that will not be contained, that,
and there is something in you that cannot be housed, there is
something of you that's innate in an airport,
that makes breakfast in handcuffs,
there is something,
there is a,
there is, there is,

there is something in you that cannot be held--
something alone and amazed--
something handless on a bicycle--
something riding over a stone in the crater of an evening--
an eyeball in a broken
cup something, and a grey muzzle
and a bloody tongue,
a red shawl and a rack of teeth

there is something in you that breaks
out at odd moments and eats--
that sacred, a rat:
there is a death in you that is on fire.

A rabbit, a remnant,
a thing too young to run away,
ears transparent in the sunrise
(her veins lit up in pink)
a stupid little furry thing
chosen by time
to break my heart.

In my human life, I was like a beaten dog
bearing his teeth for the last time.
The rabbit doesn't run; it feels I know
that life is finally over.

On the path to the supermarket
draped in mist
we eye each other
until a human
on a bicycle arrives, (horribly)
and drives the young rabbit away
while running over me.