[This heart that broke so long]
The hound leaps down from the moon. You are the hare,
heaving your ropy muscles across the forest floor.
Indolent once in your lovely white, lazing under
swags of offerings, blossoms, fruit. Now running
hurly-burly tumult and scrabbling back paws,
eating only in furtive bolts and the whites
always showing. You were a girl, but no more;
remembrance makes the rabbit rabbit faster
to the hound that courses the track. The meat
tastes sweet as gumdrops. The girl you were
had a little dog she fed from her plate when
able. That dog is old now, probably dead.
This one needs a collar. This one has been
bred to jet sheen, frictionless alacrity.
Running though its pads tear, though its lungs burst.
O the hound loves the hare. Loves the hare’s
kerning path and how its feet scrabble for purchase,
emdashing across the page. That’s you, the white
space stretching further and further, arcing
over rivers, over paragraphs and epistles, desperately
lunging for a safe margin, a burrow to comma into,
or a tunnel bracketed. The hound loves the girl
not the hare but the hare will do and you
girl it faster and your hair streams uninterrupted.