Rabbiting

RABBITING

​​Instinctive, even, this understanding

that most of what we push into the world 

won’t make it far, so can you

blame us if we stash it away

in a thatch of tall grass

or beneath a pallet leaned against

the side of a white fence?

 

And most days we’re right, our heart-

work carried off squeaking 

into the night in the clutch

of indifferent claws just searching

for something soft to squeeze.

But sometimes, as evidenced 

by the sheer abundance littering

the field this evening, we’re pleased to be 

wrong, and something we made 

somehow slipped away beyond

even the suffocating grip 

of our most directive instincts,

furrowing in the fertile dark 

of some fern-thick forest 

where even now it goes on

making, making, making