The Insects
Over the land
you hear them tossing
across millennia of space,
the rabbit comes out
to show them
springs mouth
stuffed with white gauze,
the first side of death
making the sun bloom
in the night.
Our effervescence
charmed those hunters
until all that was left
was a whole
emptiness
from which our yearning sprung;
delighted
in the malleable sound
(for tender resolve
warped our history,
made of it our
stone-ancestry)
and would weeks
span out, we could
have seen our standing
at the sun-close day.
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