A baby rabbit will push his face

Between two walls, ears folded back.

A brown 9mm round fired into linoleum —

Though exposed, stubborn and steeled

Against all pronged voices

Or fat, pinching insults.


Not for comfort,

Not in the bookdog’s ears

(Folded and forgotten),

Nor in the sleeve peeking

Out of a coat cuff —

Asking to be tugged

To be trimmed with teeth.




The corners

The underarm nook,

The upturned mouth,

The eye and its pink slime,

I have always sought the corners

Of mouths, of rooms, of hot, hollow

Thoughts like rogue Mercuries,

Silver bodies, poison planet,

Distant messengers,

Round and boundless.


Though I have never

Seen the middle of you.

In a silver hollow-point hole

I bury my face and wait

For anything to happen.