The White Rabbit
You practice death
like this.
You wear your own ghost.
In the white snow,
you welcome your disguise.
You let the wind
blow through you
on its way to breaking twigs
for firewood.
You let the wind push
you as the snow leans
in fright against a house.
Winter wants to settle
your life in this cold.
A dispute it has
against your fur that fits,
against your heart's heat.
Already the earth
has given up its shape to
the falling snow.
You, too, should give up
the randomness of your paw
prints that makes \
the hunter stop and wonder.
Already one bullet in his
gun belongs to your body.
Your dark eyes will learn
that, when light
abandons them, the stew pot
had heard about you,
and luck was waiting for
your one loose foot.
Structure
32 lines · 6 stanzas