The Rabbit, Remaining Perfectly Still, Is Not There

Like a stroke. Division between sunshine
pulling itself across the kitchen table.
Hand enclosing the steaming mug
of coffee. The wake behind rippling.
Distorted memory. You always strove
for hidden. Mirror in a fun house.
Nothing believable. Play-dough man.

We do not reveal.

A poem is a thousand meanings. Each true.
It doesn’t matter. Each reality is
manufactured. Like tv’s. Shattered.
Blowing bubbles which float
into shadows. Speak in five languages
at the moment that a word is placed.

I can’t help but write.

And shy away. Tie and jeans. Housecoat.
Leather jacket with obscure colours.
A breath expelled. Inhaled. Mismatched
socks. Hair in endless colours of length.
Back and forth. Words pacing back and forth.
Know me. Know me not. But the faucet
is broken. Leaks words under a cloak
of obscurity.

Write. Delete. Write. Delete.

Avoid touching
or being touched
for more than
the length
of a dangling
meaning
and a twisted
word.