You are a dangerous rabbit. Super quiet.
The bedroom fills with you and it is like a huckleberry bush where the
lowness of things elevates the creatures dwelling it.
A titmouse dampens what little sound you are already making.
You to me is a distance frequently thought of, says no one, coyly, in a teal and
aqua room.
The rabbit loves a gross fire. We have built it.
The gross fire disobeys the pit it started in.
As though it could say, No, you are not me, and No, you will never be.

This is not the world in which everything you own and think toward is.
This is the world of the rabbit, the titmouse, and the huckleberry bush.
Limply, the rabbit, in love, nibbles at some lettuce left over from a picnic left.

Then, after things have quieted down even more, only one or two guests
lingering, and as if called by a jovial saint, you move to the bay window,
where you think you may see the rabbit, the titmouse, and the huckleberry
bush, you move to the window to look out of it, even though there is no thing
there, you look out of it.