Day 93 of 100 Poems/100 Days

Whittle

Tie the rabbit,
split its chest,
and wrap its heart
around your neck.

But it’s not a magic trick,
if I end up killing the rabbit,
so I must put it back together,
one bone, by one bone,
ending with its jaw line.

On its second breath,
I find this distance,
between sound and echo,
between past and present,
narrows, like two hands in embrace.

So I shove it down the white hat,
and it comes out black,
as if my skull,
could tarnish any wise thought.

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