On our first spring here,
a rabbit with a broken leg
struck up camp in our hedges.
He felt like a metaphor
but for what
I haven't quite figured out yet.
From the hill where we live
you can hear the downtown trucks
rumbling.
They sound like their bellies are full of fire
and the asphalt has told them some great joke
about the sky, probably.
Each day that we stay here
the past seems less clear to me
like a sudsy island floating away
on a river.
Maybe I don't have to make sense of it
to pull back together the sequences of its birth
the swirl, the churn, the bubbling up of it all,
but rather let it, and me, be how it is
like a rabbit with a broken leg
making space in the hedges.