Content Warning: themes of illness, death

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November 2006 & there is rabbit hole ridden scrubland

in place of your formerly human body.          A diagnosis is an omen.
             You are learning what it is to be precocial.                     The diseases

 of lagomorphs are well documented, psychopomps                          of prophecy

that they are. They die in spirals. Hurrying to convey                        the weight

of their lesions to crowds.                   Some tumours contain teeth - dying             

a smile in the bruise dark of a bodies fading  Some futures are a given. A body

is a no-dimensional idea until it is observed,             at which point it falls

victim to mortality. Your god is a callous remnant of the unrequited plea

to escape gravity.        Skin sloughs from bodies & walks its own path.

A warren of names sheds the colony of holes.           Call this freedom

if you must. Raw is the body with empty. Pink is the flesh, vulnerable

to scrubland, root systems are addicted to holding the mantle of the body

together. To them it is living.             We allow microclimates to broker cauls &

wildfire across the faces                      of newborns. Birthing is the price

for knowing. A body can be born with a body already growing inside.

Actions have biomass. There is a stream trickling from the incision in the

rabbit body that will nurture the land.              The rabbit must die to achieve

 its purpose.     To become a river is no                            bad thing. To become human

 one must give the Spring its due.       An absence cauterised in place of belief is a puzzle.

 Lucky rabbit paw you, lame of your own too much. Stertor rapture.

 Call this escape if you must. Culling season leaving its long red of wrecking ecosystems

for the stars. The body              is a source. The body is heralding all anaemic puzzles that challenge it.      

      Wracking its skin of fathom & biome, refusing to be so displaced by name.