The burdening night, the tumbledown heads of dandelion, the inking and purpled clouds, the belly-soft clouds, the clouds moving down, touching the trees,
touching the sides of houses.
The blank and hollow turning shades of stems, the trees a bank of muscle forms, striated tissue, the deep snapped stems of dandelion and milk
clinging to the petals, the grass inward and outward.
The softness of the paw and tufts of fur between the claws, the eye the slip of light in the tree gaps.
There is the thin anchor of light, the body in the grass, the grass circling the body, growing wider, faster, the light at the edges of whiskers, the thinness of whiskers.
The whole self turning with this, with the largeness of clouds, the forms of clouds, the black-blue and sharp clouds against the backs of trees.
Bracing out, discing, the fuzzed whorl at the end of the field, the field moving out from under itself, the graze of light on the ear, hollowed out into the eye,
the dark and the slow edge of time, katydids, slivers of leaf, the weight of the tongue and the yellowed strands of grass.
// ninth draft
// seventh draft
// fourth draft
// second draft
// first draft
This piece began both as a large feeling and as a preoccupation with Wallace Stevens' "A Rabbit as King of the Ghosts." Which some people consider to be a pretty silly poem. I find it large (even though it's physically small) and dark (even though it's kind of cute) and strange (no need to qualify this), which is why I think I keep returning to it.