MICHAEL THORBJ\xc3\x98RN FEEHLY
I’m really a fan of the rabbits, of slender ears
of their long left ears, fickle, triangulating signals from the wind, beneath the bushes beside the large ferrovitreous cistern collecting dimensionless shadows of European attitudes. Now the right ear bends, turning toward ground the innominate blades under snow here.
Now I’m really a rabbit, mostly dishabille,
a shapka-ushanka with flopping ashen flaps above, bobbing below, my peculiar ears.
Here I’m down on fours and my legs
learn new syntax from the available experience of lassitude proffered by vernal narcoma.
Now I’m not worried if I have stipend in backlog with which to purchase utterances of the coterie or nibble the ivory indices of semophones. Here weightless excuses sink into deep wellsand anchorites emerge from ochlophobia to diveinto the ice covered river intothe yellowmost layer of scaffold, of secondhand sulphur, down the clear river-torso, skimmuddied toesconjured by buoyancy stiffened by cold.
Now, the rabbits are speechless.
All these worries submerged in praise!
As a fan, I’m curious by megawatts, stupid by cocktail;
I chase with abandon. I kick in the snow, shoot up
white hurricanes, flares reflecting frightened Andromeda. The warren, below roots and rubble under cedars, is too smallfor my biophysical exuberance; the undercarriage of trees disorients me.
Now I’m here, and I will be here
until it’s time to rub against the clock,
against the changeover at the rotary. I turn sinuously, I accelerate out of lens focus,
beyond the pointillistic boundary.