before revealing the rabbit, after she reaches into you
like the magician into the hat, the will
of touch descending into night, past the stain
-ed mural against the brick, past any tulip or fallen
rose, the lesser pleasures—no, further, she wants
a grip around the animal, wants the desire inside
the hand to discover, correctly, the fur
and the porous flesh beneath the fur, and the wet
living beneath the porous flesh. the hare,
once hoping to never be found but still begging
for touch, squeals, almost, as if it were a soldier
startled into softening and thus remembering,
with ache, that the years spent as a child
were real. around the ears, the hands tight
without relent despite the squirm, the defense
of muscle, the arm pulling a beast across the barrier
between notreal and real. clenched, the rabbit
thrashing free, trembling and, seemingly, almost
smiling. where did we say the heart of man
lies again? in the chest where any arrow could
reach, or elsewhere, in darker parts, deeper?
