[32] Hare, Leslie King


He sits in auburn sheen among the barley tops,
as they in solemn duty raise their tiny arms aloft,
and weary remnants of the heat that baked the clay
flow gently along his flanks, cooling like a wave.

His eyes like marbles consume bright aspects of the scene,
rich and thick the air enveloping, where
I and he will meet in soon short steps upon this path
a skylark lifts us up in song. Still lungs, my pounding heart

with blood so warm and lithe, the chasm of my head is
rapt, contained, barely uttering a breath instead.
With no more than a whisper his orbits glow,
fixed on my monstrous body, borne out of the hedgerow.

Two small brown beacons twitch, registering flight,
my scent now drawing all evenings hosts, that fizz and bite
with tiny punctures in their short frenzy, my skin
ripples and sends out signals, sighs of my forlorn following.

Where were his feet? I don’t believe I’ll ever know,
I run my hand along the barley’s beard like a comb,
somewhere the ears are settling, shifting on their stalks
when I approach completion, as a distant muntjac barks.

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