the bunny in my yard

It’s the bunny in my yard, digging out bulbs
and pooping on Buddha’s statue, consummating
with light, sitting still and then hopping abruptly
to a hiding space, pouncing on dried lentils
I spread out in the sun.

I watch the weeds, clean the patio sofa
trying to remember the smell of the rain and the man who moved in
with me last summer and left by autumn. Was this bunny watching us
when I touched him the first time?

The man loved the soup of dried lentils and liked
to watch me when I looked outside the window hoping
the bulbs would arrive someday he did not know
that someone like him would leave them outside, half-eaten,
wishing to sniff the rain or wanting a bowl of virgin light.




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