I’m really a fan of the rabbits, of slender ears
of their long left ears, 
fickle, triangulating 
signals from the wind, beneath the bushes 
beside the large ferrovitreous cistern collecting 
dimensionless shadows of European attitudes. 
Now the right ear bends, turning toward ground 
the innominate blades under snow here.

Now I’m really a rabbit, mostly dishabille,
a shapka-ushanka with 
flopping ashen flaps 
above, bobbing below, my peculiar ears.
Here I’m down on fours and my legs
learn new syntax from the available experience 
of lassitude proffered by vernal narcoma.

Now I’m not worried if I have stipend in backlog 
with which to purchase utterances of the coterie 
or nibble the ivory indices of semophones. Here 
weightless excuses sink into deep wells
and anchorites emerge from ochlophobia to dive
into the ice covered river into
the yellowmost layer of scaffold, of secondhand sulphur, 
down the clear river-torso, skimmuddied toes
conjured by buoyancy stiffened by cold.

Now, the rabbits are speechless.
All these worries submerged in praise!
As a fan, I’m curious by megawatts, stupid by cocktail;
I chase with abandon. I kick in the snow, shoot up
white hurricanes, 
flares reflecting frightened Andromeda. 
The warren, below roots and rubble under cedars, is too small
for my biophysical exuberance; the undercarriage of trees 
disorients me.

Now I’m here, and I will be here
until it’s time to rub against the clock,
against the changeover at the rotary. I turn sinuously, 
I accelerate out of lens focus,
beyond the pointillistic boundary.