deepundergroundpoetry.com

Run, Rabbit

Will you tell them about silence.
How foxholes echo through
the muted damp of your throat,
for you too, are burrows

you too will tell them
of your travels inside.
How the brook far beyond
your Grandmotherís house
is where you want to lay
your face, your hands.

You want to drown,
but only enough to explain
the definition of an echo

and the foxes, and the fish,
and the warrens in your heart
they have written their
hushed letters, too.
Written by Goya
Published
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