Your mother has, I’m sure, told
you about the rabbit on the moon?
Mine tells of the wild hare born
to a pair of pet rabbits in a house
down the trail

—or sometimes monkeys, sometimes otters,
sometimes a toad, but mostly rabbits,
downy grey things with dumpling bums
and periscope ears.

In any case the hare ate no pellets, only
mouthfuls of clover staining his
maw yellow, jumped too high
with muscles that knew the wind
like an old friend and finally one evening leapt

and landed on the moon. He sleeps
as the moon turns to shadow,
refusing cold starlight
and eternity’s gaze, but
every month when his perch swivels
allowing him a view of brushstroke clouds,

water churning slow as azure tree sap, he
sticks his paws in those craters and makes
himself useful. Grinds bitter powder
for the sick, and sticky cakes of rice
for the hungry.
All the while noticing—

he’s never noticed before,
between monolith ice caps—
islands green as clover springing up
			as if underfoot
as if he can almost taste bent grass
rising to the sun while his shadow flees
the scene.

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