Rabbit offers his only wisdom:

Fuck fast, fuck often. Do it

in an open field, do it

in the haybarn and

run, run, run away.

 

Rabbit, I would, I did. Picked hay

from my creases and let seed

spill down my thigh. But, Rabbit,

it’s the running I could never do,

the leaving of the garden. You

in the field, all legs and long

of tooth, have never met the trap,

the farmer’s gun, the poison honey.

 

He could not say a thing. He knew

nothing of love, its sticky strands,

its dull tarnish. He ate my flowers

and ran. I finished the weeding.

Cried in the shower and dreamed

of his children: their gentle eyes,

rapid hearts. Changed my mind.