on Tuesdays, there are rabbits in your veins, until Sunday, when the tide floods Monday is the day when the waiting and anxious, stained
fleeing hawks and clouds and
other people's fingers.
Buzzards wheel overhead,
screaming like lambs
in their first thunderstorm.
But the rabbits can never run far,
because your bones
are old trees,
deep-rooted to my terra firma
in, crabs and seaweed and all
too much for old cypress knees,
and west winds sigh through wooden throats.
those songs of eggs
that fell from too high, well,
I always guessed they came from jealous butterflies,
whose wings melt in afternoon rains.
ground meets the sky, a day for drying out
the burrows of tortoises and hares.
Eagles preen their feathers, dripping
memories of storms from high above.
hyacinths for eyes, you
hide snakes in your tendons,
and my crocodile teeth chase deer
around your tongue,
green from years of algae and
listening through conch shell ears for
the sound of rabbits
on Tuesday mornings
on Tuesdays, there are rabbits in your veins,
until Sunday, when the tide floods
Monday is the day when the
waiting and anxious, stained