on Tuesdays, there are rabbits in your veins,
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

until Sunday, when the tide floods
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.

Monday is the day when the
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,

waiting and anxious, stained
green from years of algae and
listening through conch shell ears for
the sound of rabbits
on Tuesday mornings

RATE THIS CHAPTER!